


One Loose End--COMPLETED

by AprilKathryn



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Child Death, Dad! Bucky, Dark!Steve, F/M, Implied/Referenced Torture, New arm Bucky, Post-Civil War AU, Pre-Endgame AU, Protective Bucky Barnes, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Burn Bucky Barnes/Reader, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, post-Endgame AU, single parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:54:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 35
Words: 70,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21761200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AprilKathryn/pseuds/AprilKathryn
Summary: Seeking the family he's never had, Steve takes a single mom reader under his wing with the aim to mold her into his perfect companion. But when she takes interest in Bucky, how will he handle it? And when the Snap takes Bucky from her, will she be able to escape Steve's advances?
Relationships: Brock Rumlow/Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 88
Kudos: 297





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Heartbreak Girl (18+)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/541795) by Cake-Writes. 



You were working in an office building. It was a simple job, getting coffee, sorting mail, and done by 4 most days. You pick up Lily from daycare at 5 and go home. Rinse and repeat. You didn’t know the office was a front. You knew it was enough money to support you and Lily, some leftover for savings. It had been a godsend from the temp agency which became a full-time position. Lily had only been 10 months and diapers are damn expensive. Now it had been two years of setting meetings, getting coffee, and sorting mail. It’s a good job, but it’s not what you wanted. Not what you had planned for yourself. Nothing you had was what you planned for yourself, but you wouldn’t give up Lil for anything.

You weren’t supposed to be at the office that day. You weren’t scheduled, but Christmas was coming, and a little overtime wouldn’t hurt. You’d been in the boss’s office, delivering faxes when the noise came. Gunshots, rapid-fire, and the sound of doors banging open. He had shoved you under the desk and covered view of you with the chair.

“Don’t make a sound.”

The sound of footsteps, the door being kicked in. Grunts as your boss is slammed onto the desk over you. The clink of handcuffs.

“You really thought you could grow a Hydra cell right under our noses?”

The voice is firm, commanding.

“Cut off one head and two more grow in its place.”

The boss’s voice, then a snapping noise and a gurgle. Something slumps to the floor. Collective murmurs followed by,

“Damn it!”

A deep sigh.

“Get him out of here. Buck, scan the place for remainders. Take in anyone you find.”

You’re fighting to keep yourself from making noise. You’ve covered your mouth and you don’t think you’ve ever heard yourself breathe this loud _. Take in anyone you find_. Lily is staying with a neighbor. You were only supposed to be gone for a couple of hours. In your panic, you don’t notice your foot sliding from its position. It hits the wheel of the chair, a soft sound, but all conversation in the room ceases. Boots come closer and you begin to shake. There are shadows on the wall, one on either side of the desk. The chair is ripped away, a gun barrel in its place. You squeak, an attempted scream which is cut off by fear. You’ve raised your hands next to your head subconsciously.

“Come out, nice and slow.”

Someone new, different from the commanding voice, from just beyond the gun. You crawl out and find yourself kneeling between two men. Your entire body is trembling and you’re blinking tears away. They’re both built, one in a deep blue tactical suit, the other in black. The gunman has a prosthetic arm, entirely metal with gold accents. He puts the gun barrel under your chin and its all too much. You burst into tears, collapsing to the floor to sob into the carpet. All you can think of is Lily. You’d been longer than you’d planned and now it would be longer still. No one moved when you fell to the floor, but the man in the tactical suit had looked down at you. You meet each other’s eyes for a split second, and he kneels next to you.

“Steve, it could be a ruse.”

A woman’s voice this time.

“Она не построена как вдова. Или любого бойца в этом отношении”

“Это не значит, что она безвредна.”

The black tactical suit and the woman’s voice go back and forth in the other language. It’s Russian, maybe. You have a neighbor who bakes bread and sings in a similar style.

“She doesn’t understand you two. Tell me, have you ever met a Hydra agent who doesn’t speak Russian, or at least understand it?”

It’s Steve. He holds out a hand for you to take.

“Steve!”

The black suit. Steve ignores him and helps you stand up.

“Are you hurt?”

You shake your head rapidly. You’re still shaking and despite your best effort, you can’t speak.

“She’s going into shock. Buck, get her out of here.”

The black tactical suit, Buck, you guess, hands his gun over to the woman, a redhead in her own tactical gear. They’re all familiar, but your head is too scrambled to place them. A hand on your back guides you out of the office. You catch sight of the clock. 5:30. Your hand shoots up to your mouth and the guiding hand wavers.

“What is it?”

“I-Lily-I’m late.”

“Who’s Lily?”

“She’s only 3. She’ll be upset. I need to go home.”

“I’ll take you.”

You shake your head, subconsciously, as you pull away.

“I have a Metro card.”

“I’d rather take you. You were in a dangerous situation here and we’d like to ensure your safety.”

You’re biting your lip, weighing the options when he puts his hand against your back and begins to guide you again. You feel a flush creep up your spine, and you stare at the floor as the pair of you take the elevator down. There’s a black SUV outside. He opens the passenger door for you and drives the half-hour across the city. You text your neighbor with numb fingers, apologizing profusely, but she waves it off. She sends you a picture of Lily at the table, coloring. The sight calms you. You slump slightly against the seat, catching the attention of this Buck.

“Feeling better?”

You don’t answer, uncertain what a good answer would be. There’s still shock at the events, of course, and worry about Lily. Worry about the “what now”s and “what if”s.

“Rent is due Thursday.”

It’s the only thing you can think of. Payday is tomorrow and rent is due Thursday.

“Hundred-dollar late fee on Friday. Out by Monday if it’s not paid. Electric due Tuesday. Water due Wednesday. Late fees if they’re not paid.”

You’re rambling now, finger pulling at a string on your sweater, watching it unravel with ravenous interest.

“Why Lily?”

You freeze, bewildered.

“What?”

“Lily, you named her Lily. Why?”

You blink. It’s caught you off guard and you’re not sure you want to give the answer to a complete stranger. You decide to lie.

“It’s my favorite flower.”

Buck chuckles, shaking his head slightly.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

_Oh_.

“Okay. Her father…he left me a bouquet of lilies the day he left. They were what we would take to my mother’s grave.”

Silence. He obviously didn’t mean to ask such a personal question. You ride the rest of the way like this. Lily is waiting on the steps with Mrs. March.

“Mama!”

Lily is down the steps and in your arms before you can clamber out of the car. You can’t respond to her, just hold her tight against you. Tears begin to well as you breathe in the familiar scent of her strawberry shampoo. Buck rounds the front of the car and Mrs. March’s eyes widen.

“Why don’t we get you inside?”

She ushers, glancing nervously at him. Lily, however, is too fascinated to go inside.

“Mama, who dat?”

She points and you pat her hand lightly.

“It’s rude to point,” you whisper, unable to command your voice into an admonishing tone. Buck smiles at the little girl. It’s soft, meant to be friendly. Lily smiles back but buries her face in your shoulder, too shy around strangers to meet his eyes. Mrs. March clears her throat, snapping everyone back to reality.

“Will you take her upstairs? I need to-we need-“

You don’t find the words you need to finish. She nods, taking Lily from you and giving a curt nod to Buck. You wait until they’re inside to turn to him.

“What do I do?”

It takes everything you have to stay upright. Weakness takes over everything and you sway on the spot. Buck reaches out and steadies you. His hands are on your shoulders, the only thing grounding you to reality. You can feel the cold of the metal through your sweater.

“I’ll come to check in on Thursday. Stay home until then unless absolutely necessary.”

It occurs to you there’s hardly any food in the house. You were going to go in the morning. You were supposed to be off work. Now you’re permanently off work.

“We need groceries.”

“I’ll send a pizza.”

“Lily doesn’t eat pizza.”

“What child doesn’t eat pizza?”

You laugh softly. He lets his hands fall from your shoulders.

“She’s picky.”

He chuckles again. It’s a sound from the back of his throat, almost a growl. It sends another flush up your spine.

“It’s okay. Groceries then, give me a list and I’ll bring it Thursday.”

You shake your head.

“You don’t need to do that.”

He looks you in the eye. They’re grey, blue on the edges, and they root you to the spot.

“You didn’t ask for this. The least I can do is help.”

You nod a little. You don’t invite him inside, but you do write the smallest grocery list you can muster and take it down to him. You don’t have the energy to put Lily to bed on time and you spend the next 24 hours watching cartoons and feeding her chicken nuggets. You step outside for a few minutes, just for some air, after she’s gone to bed. You don’t get to see Buck drop off the groceries the next morning. Don’t see him frantically go to Mrs. March’s and pound on the door for the extra key. You don’t see him gather a bag of Lily’s things and take her away to someplace safe. All you see and feel is darkness, slight pain in your head. The sound of tires squealing out.

“You will become a new head for Hydra.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: non-con sexual activity, torture/pain

Your head is killing you when you come to. Your forehead is sensitive to touch, and you can feel a bump, topped off with a cut. You sit up, squeezing your eyes shut at the sudden spinning of the room. It’s a concrete block of a place, with a large metal door at one end. It’s small, maybe the size of Lily’s room.

 _Lily_.

Was she in a room like this too? Motherly instinct creeps in and you stagger to your feet, trying to stave off the dizziness. You pound against the door.

“Hey! Hey, hello?”

No answer. You pound against the door harder, your fist hurting a little. A response this time. A hard kick against the other side and a short shout in a harsh sounding language. Probably Russian, again.

“Where is my daughter?!”

You yell this time, a real yell and there’s no response from the other side. You kick the door, hurting your toes a little bit. The door bangs open and you’re shoved back against the block wall. More Russian-Esque yelling and sharp pain in your stomach. You double over and a large hand grabs you by the hair. You claw at it, but there’s no budging. The hand drags you as you scramble to get your feet under you. You’re finally dropped at someone’s feet. Heavy boots are the first thing you see.

“Is this our little escapee?”

 _Escapee_?

“From the Brooklyn office.”

“Very good.”

The hand returns, on the collar of your shirt now, to lift you into a chair. It’s almost similar to a dentist's chair but make it industrial. When the hand releases, you give the man a dirty look. It’s all I can do.

“I apologize for any rough treatment, but we did have to ensure we reached you before Captain Rogers did.”

_Captain Rogers?_

“Now, I understand you did mostly clerical work, but I know you did some meeting setting? Is that correct?”

You blink at the man. He’s balding, wearing round glasses, and holding a red ballpoint pen. There are various papers in a couple of piles in front of him. He pauses, looking over his glasses at me with his pen poised on a pad of paper. When I still don’t respond, he looks to the man with the grabbing hands. He wraps a pair of straps around my wrists and lowers a machine. It has a circular helmet of sorts with prongs on the edges of some needles. He pulls your head back by the hair and lowers the helmet around your head. When you try to move, he holds you still by the shoulders.

“Now then, your duties in the office?”

“Wh-what is this thing?”

“It’s a simple behavior correction device. Now, your duties at the office?”

“Uh, coffee and-and faxes.”

“And the meetings?”

Your rack your brain for the answer you think he might be searching for.

“Yes, but not very often.”

“And when Captain Rogers questioned you, did you mention these meetings?”

_Rogers, again?_

“I don’t…I don’t know who that is.”

The man chortles heavily. His chortle turns into a coughing fit which he quiets with a handkerchief.

“You don’t know Captain Rogers? Why what a ridiculous thing to say! You expect me to believe these words? Rumlow, let’s demonstrate exactly how this device works for our guest.”

The man holding your shoulders lets go, securing straps around your ankles. You push against them but there’s no budging. The helmet begins to whir, lights around the needles shining into your eyes. You’re suddenly blinded by immense pain. You scream until your throat is raw. The pain stops, the helmet lifts, and the two men stare at you from across the table.

“Now then, what did you tell Captain Rogers when he questioned you?”

_Captain Rogers. Captain Rogers. Steve. Steve Rogers. You know him. He’s an Avenger._

“He didn’t question me. He had Buck take me home.”

“The Soldat? Was anyone else present?”

_Soldat?_

_The redheaded woman. Black Widow. Lily had a Barbie fashioned after her. Another Avenger._

“You don’t honestly expect us to believe this. No questioning? Whatsoever?”

You push against the restraints again.

“A redhead and Buck, those were the only others. They were speaking in a language I didn’t know. I don’t have anything to tell you! I don’t remember who meetings were between, I didn’t learn names or faces. Just places where people sat, so I could deliver coffee to the right cubicles and desks. Please, don’t turn this thing on again!”

You can see they’re going to, even before the man, Rumlow, moves towards you. Tears begin to fall as the machine whirs again. They leave it on longer this time. You can’t hold in the screams. You fight against the restraints, but it’s no use. When they turn the machine off, there’s silence for a minute.

“The Soldat. Tell us more about his behavior.”

“The-the what?”

“The Soldat!”

It’s Rumlow who speaks. He’s angry and there’s no warning as the machine whirs again.

“Rumlow, no! Remember your place!”

The whirring stops before any pain begins.

“There should have been a man with Captain Rogers. They may have called him James, or-or Bucky, as I believe he is nicknamed.”

 _Buck_.

“Yes, he-he drove me home. He was going to bring us groceries. He told me not to go outside. He said it was dangerous. I should’ve listened to him. I just wanted some air. I just-“

You break off into sobs.

“He spoke to you?”

You smile slightly at the thought.

_Why Lily?_

“He asked me why I named her Lily. To calm me down, I think, after the-after what happened.”

The man with the glasses tuts.

“And how did he seem?”

“S-Seem?”

“Was he attentive? Following orders?”

You blink. It’s an odd question.

“No one really gave him-he listened to Steve, if-if that’s what you mean, but-“

“Captain Rogers was in control of him?”

You try to shake your head, but the helmet stops you.

“N-No, Steve, I mean, Captain Rogers wasn’t controlling him. He seemed…he was-he was kind to me. He was going to bring us groceries.

There’s a derisive snort from the Rumlow man.

“The fist of Hydra doing grocery runs for the Avengers.”

His voice is full of bitterness.

“Doc, she doesn’t have anything to tell us. I say, we fry her and leave her to the guards.”

He comes in close and stares down at you. His eyes are a deep brown, full of malicious glint. Your lip trembles.

“Or you could leave her to me. I’ll whip her into shape.”

He sneers at you, biting the air just in front of my nose.

You wrinkle my face at the thought of him.

“I’d sooner throw her to the soldiers.”

Both men pause at the same moment.

“Throw her…to the soldiers?”

“And have her return leading the pack.”

You’re thrown into the concrete room and receive nothing for a couple of days. Your only knowledge of time comes from the tiniest window high up on the back wall. The room is bare, save for a prison-esque toilet, and every so often a rat which skitters from one hole in the wall to another. Your body aches from the shocks you endured. You’ve bitten your nails down to the nubs from anxiety. All you can think of is Lily. Who’s taking care of her, if anyone, and if someone will put her into the system if you’re gone long enough. Most of all, you wonder if she’s safe. You haven’t cried since Rumlow left you here. You wonder if he’ll return or if they’ll just let you rot here. You get the answer when the door swings open on the fourth day. You’re hungry, stomach screaming when a platter of slop is thrown on the floor. You surge forward, but the plate is slid away from you.

“Not yet.”

It’s Rumlow. You reach again, but he puts your wrist under his boot this time. It doesn’t hurt, but you know it could in an instant. It’s a warning. You look up at him in question. He shuts the door to the room.

“Food is a reward for compliance.”

 _Compliance_.

There’s a jingling sound near my ear. You look up in time to watch him undo his belt completely. A zipper opens.

“Are you going to comply?”

Your eyes dart to the plate on the floor. You start to shake.

“It’s me or the guards. Take your choice.”

You know no one is coming to save you right now. You have to survive, for Lily, and food is survival. If this means food, then it also means survival. You open your mouth and conjure every happy memory you can. Lily’s soft coos when you held her for the first time. One of the coos sounds a lot like a grunt. A man’s grunt, as he threads his fingers into your hair. The onesie Lily wore when she took her first steps. It was fleece, with pink clouds, and on sale. She was growing so much at the time, she still was. Another grunt, a hand tightening on the back of your neck.

“Make it good for me.”

You’re suddenly too aware of what’s happening. It feels like a disgrace to try thinking of Lily again. You’re gagging. Another grunt, deeper this time. You sputter and spit. Rumlow chuckles above you and kicks the plate your way. Some of the food hits the floor, but you try not to think about it as you scoop it up into your hands. It’s a grey meal supplement of some kind, nearly tasteless. You eat it all, not knowing when the next meal will be. If you were smart, you’d probably have saved it to ration off bit by bit, but you didn’t feel particularly smart at the moment. You curl up in the corner and eventually drift into a restless sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

It takes 3 months for the rescue mission to come. They’ve thrown you into a cage with three others to fight over the grey slop three times a week. Rumlow escalates to taking more than your mouth in exchange for extra food. Once a week guards haul you to the shock chair. There’s no interrogation, no questions, just torture in the hopes you’ll lose enough humanity for them to replace it with something else. You watch the other girls in your cell disappear one by one, life leaving their eyes to be replaced with a blank slate. They’re taken away, given their own cells, trained to fight by the guards. You operate on the principle of survival, for Lily, but the numbness creeps into you just like the others. You no longer flinch when the cage door opens, or when Rumlow shakes you to make you react during his private sessions with you. You’ve perfected a high keen from the back of your throat to keep him satisfied. Once the other girls have joined the ranks, you’re thrown back into a concrete cell. Rumlow’s visits become more frequent with no rewards. Your body has ached constantly since you arrived, but now there’s more surface pain from the bruises he leaves behind. He takes your clothes and replaces them with a smock. There’s a permanent sticky feeling on your thighs. _Survival_ , you whisper to yourself, _survival_.

So, you don’t flinch when the door to your cell swings open again. You don’t even look up at him. You stay motionless, focused on the floor in front of you. Your knees are hugged to your chest. You don’t flinch when the figure in the door separates into two. It’s happened before. Something different now. One of the figures kneels, a gentle hand reaching out to lift your chin. You know their face. You reach up, touch blonde hair, and look past him to see the glint of metal in the low light.

“Hey, you, ready to get out of here?”

Steve lifts you into his arms and your head lolls against his shoulder. _Safety, survival, escape_. You hear gunshots, grunting, and anguish ahead of you as Buck takes out any obstacles. You round the corner and came to a stop. You turn your head away from Steve’s shoulder to see Rumlow, flanked by guards.

“Cap, I know you’re not trying to take my favorite toy away.”

“She doesn’t belong to you.”

Steve’s arms tighten slightly around you.

“And you brought back the Soldat, how kind of you. Stops me from having to come out and get him.”

Buck makes a noise like a growl and steps forward, gun poised to shoot.

“Nah, ah, ah. Remember what happened with Zemo? I know you remember, _Soldat_. We don’t want you to make a mess of things again.”

You see Buck stiffen slightly.

“I don’t answer to you and I won’t ever answer to you. They cleared me of that poison you put in my head.”

Rumlow chuckles.

“Of course, they did _Soldat_ , but can we really be sure unless we test you?”

He begins to rattle off words in Russian. Buck twitches a little but doesn’t change his defensive stance. When Rumlow finishes his words, there’s disappointment on his face, but he shrugs.

“Oh well, guess we just have to kill you. Gotta say you’ll be missing out Cap. She’s like velvet.”

You bury your face back into Steve’s shoulder, shame and disgust rising to your face in a blush.

“Shut your fucking mouth.”

Buck’s voice, but it’s not what catches your attention.

“He touched you?”

Steve’s breath is hot against your ear. Your eyes find his and your silent answer hangs in the air between you. His face hardens, eyes shifting forward to focus on Rumlow.

“Bucky. Take her and go to the jet. I’ll handle them.”

Buck-now Bucky?-hesitates.

“Steve, I don’t-“

“Buck.”

They look at each other for a moment before Buck(y?) sighs and takes you from him. Steve doesn’t waste time launching himself at Rumlow. Fist hits skin with a smack, followed by grunts of effort from the guards as they try to subdue the hurricane-force Steve has become. You hear cracking of bones, calls for back up into radios. Buck(y?) moves you through the violence swiftly, gracefully dodging falling bodies and fists. His grip on you is the tight protective hold Steve had for a moment. You don’t jostle much as the pair of you escape the crowd. You look back to see Steve turn a guard’s head to the side with a snap. The guard’s body slumps to the ground and the pair of you make eye contact again. His skin is flushed, hair mussed from the fighting, and the corner of his mouth curves up a little into a smile. Another neck snaps in his hands.

“Don’t look.”

Buck(y?)’s voice sounds like a plea.

“I can walk.”

“It’s faster this way.”

The corridor ahead of you opens up into a hangar of sorts. There’s an aircraft waiting. You’d seen them before on the news. A ramp into the craft lower, the back opening for the two of you to enter, and Buck(y?) sets you down in one of the seats. He starts up the craft, the engines softer than you expected, and goes to the ramp with his gun at the ready. Faint gunshots begin to get closer with a barrage of yells. The echo of boots down the corridor.

“Buck! Get her in the air!”

A thunk from behind the seats as Steve jumps up into the craft. You peak over the back of the chair as he walks forward. There’s blood on his uniform, splattered across the front, and there’s a tear in the knee. He collapses into the seat next to you, face split into a delirious grin, and he smacks Buck on the arm. The response is a derisive snort.

“You could’ve been killed, Steve.”

“Lighten up, Buck. Those assholes are easy to take out and you know it.”

“And Rumlow?”

“Scattered with the other rats.”

You feel your stomach drop. It wasn’t until you heard he was still alive you realized you’d been counting on Steve to kill him. The feeling of knowing you wanted him dead makes you uneasy.

“So, he’s still out there?”

Your voice is hardly more than a whisper. Your previously dropped stomach has returned to remind you puking is a possibility. Steve stops prattling for a moment and locks eyes with you. His face softens as he notices your hands are shaking.

“Yes, but he won’t get anywhere near me without going through me and he can’t hurt me, so he won’t be able to hurt you.”

The flight takes a day. You drift in and out of sleep, catching bits of conversation between the two men.

“Lily is gonna lose her mind.”

“We need to get her cleaned up. The kid shouldn’t see her like this.”

“I know what Rumlow’s done, but could you tell from looking at her if she’s had her head scrambled?”

“She’ll have electrical scarring in her ears.”

“Shuri can assess her when we get home.”

You’re shaken awake gently when the engines turn off. You feel a bit dizzy as if the extended sleep was more than your body could handle after the constant interruptions you faced during your time with Rumlow. You sway a little when you stand, and Steve’s arm immediately attaches to your waist to support you. The sun is rising, painting the sky orange and pink. You could cry looking at it. It’d been so long since the sun had warmed your face and you pause midway down the ramp out of the jet. Steve pushes you slightly, but your feet stay grounded. Buck comes up behind you, slipping into Steve’s position. He waves Steve on and looks down at you.

“It’s okay, take all the time you need. I know how it feels to miss the sun.”

The pair of you stand for a few minutes, watching the sky change colors as the sun rises higher. He guides you into a large building with massive windows making up an entire wall. There’s a doctor waiting for you, as well as a change of clothes. The doctor takes half an hour examining you. She does a pelvic exam and apologizes when you flinch in pain.

“A couple of cracked ribs and mild burns in the outer ear. It’s better than it looks.”

You get a good look at yourself in a mirror for the first time. There’s dried blood spattering your body and clothes. A white crust highlights your inner thigh. There are bruises in various states of healing littering your skin. Your shirt is torn up the middle, revealing a bloom of more red and purple bruises on your stomach. Your hair, desperate for a wash, shines with grease. The doctor directs you to a decontamination shower. You spend half an hour scrubbing your skin, trying to pretend it the water will wash away more than just the outside damage. The towel outside the shower is the softest thing you’ve felt in ages. There’s a stack of clothes, your clothes, sitting on a chair nearby. Underwear and a sports bra, leggings, a deep green top, and a cream-colored cardigan. It feels almost strange to be completely covered. You walk back into the exam room to find Steve waiting for you. You continue to towel dry your hair and look at the mirror again. Your shirt is just big enough to highlight how much weight you’ve lost. You touch your hip thoughtfully as Steve comes up behind you. He watches you in the mirror, one of his hands running down your arm. The touch makes you wince as he brushes one of your bruises.

“There’s someone here to see you.”

You turn as the door to the exam room opens.

“Momma! Momma!”

Lily rushes you, small arms gripping your legs. You scoop her up, inhaling the familiar scent of her strawberry shampoo. You clutch her, sinking into the chair next to the door. You barely hold back tears, not wanting to upset her.

“Momma, don’t cry!”

Her little hands wipe your face, her eyes traveling over your skin. She sees a bruise on your neck and touches it. You wince, hard, and a little gasp comes out of her mouth.

“Someone hurt you.”

You nod, petting her hair and putting her head on your shoulder.

“Yes, but it’s alright now. I’m alright now.”

“Because we’re together again?”

“Because we’re together again.”


	4. Chapter 4

Recovery is slow, but the technology you have access to assists immensely. Steve splits on another mission the day the doctor confirms you’ll be okay. Over time, Bucky explains the situation. After the Sokovia Accords, Steve and a number of others broke away from the official Avengers title, using their abilities to fight against underground operations like Hydra cells. Bucky stayed in Wakanda for a while, where you’re being taken care of now until the king’s sister could erase the Hydra programming from his head. They gave him a new arm and some land on the outskirts of the city. Steve stayed away for the most part until the Hydra cell you had worked for was uncovered. He had asked Bucky to join the mission by chance, but, as Bucky put it “I can’t thank him enough for bringing you and this little darling into my life.” Bucky took care of Lily while they search for you went on until Steve called him again for an assist on the rescue. Lily is all smiles, showered with all the love she could ever want or need, and as many gifts as Bucky can find. In the weeks following your rescue, the need to stay attached to Lily is all-consuming. You don’t let her out of your sight, always holding her or at least her hand when she’ll let you. The first time you step into a crowded market with her, your throat constricts, and the trip is cut short as you try to remember how to breathe in the backseat of Bucky’s car. Lily is confused by the abrupt stop, upset with you as you load her into her car seat.

“Momma, Bucky says safety is here.”

She’s indignant, but you’re too weary with anxiety to argue with her. You buckle her in silently, keeping your mouth shut the entire way back to the house. There’s someone on the porch. Blond hair all but glows in the sunlight.

“Steeb! Momma, Momma, look! Steeb is here!”

Lily unbuckles herself (when did she learn that?) and launches out of the backseat. Steve lifts her high in the air and she squeals. The sound makes your heart leap into your throat. It’s a joyful sound, more joyful a sound than she’s made in the entire time you’ve been back with her.

“Hello, sunshine!”

He holds her with one arm and tickles her stomach. She squeals again, throwing her arms around his neck. Bucky takes her on his way through the front door, whisking her inside with the promise of a snack. Steve smiles after them, turning to you when they round the corner into the kitchen.

“Hey, you. Don’t suppose you wanna get out of here for a little bit?”

“Lily-“

“Will be fine with Buck. You need some time for yourself.”

It’s not a question anymore. You hold Lily for longer than necessary before you change into something less scrubby.

“Momma is going to spend some time with Steve, okay? I’m going to come back soon, I promise.”

You inhale deeply and bury your face in her hair.

_I promise._

Steve smiles when you come back to the porch to join him. You changed into a black sundress, with a hem that just tickles your knees, and sunflowers printed all over. A pair of simple black sandals and a soft cream cardigan top off the look. It’s the most dressed up you’ve been for anything other than a job in months.

“Where are we going?”

“It's a surprise.”

He opens the car door for you, waits until you’ve buckled in to close it. _Old chivalry dies hard_. There’s a jazz tune of some kind on the radio ad Steve taps his fingers along to it. You watch the city fade into the distance, disappearing over the horizon. Trees begin to dominate the landscape, a single gravel-covered road becoming the only means of traveling through. Steve turns onto a dirt offshoot, following it before coming to a clearing next to the lakeshore. A small house sits near the edge of the trees, made of stone with a large front porch. It’s screened with a swing hanging from the rafters of the roof. A series of large cement squares lead to a dock jutting from the shore into the water. Steve turns off the car and comes around to open your door.

“Steve, what is this?”

He smiles broadly, gesturing to the house and clearing with both hands.

“This is for you. For you and Lily--to live in.”

You blink, looking from the house to him, and back.

“We have an apartment in New York.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, but the smile never falters.

“No, no, see it’s safer for you here, near Bucky. Near me! I’ve had everything moved over for you.”

He grabs your hand and begins to pull you to the house. You flinch at the grasp and he stops, loosening his grip.

“Steve, this is…I can’t accept this. I mean, we-I-our lives are in New York. Lily’s daycare and my job-which, I guess, I don’t have anymore, but a new job, it’s-it’s all she’s ever known. It’s all _I’ve_ ever known. This is too much, I-we couldn’t possibly-“

Steve’s mouth twitches again. The smile stops reaching his eyes.

“I know, but it’s safe here. Bucky is nearby to watch Lily when you need, or I can watch her-“

“You’ve been on missions non-stop.”

“I can take a breather!”

“It’s your job to go on missions, Bucky’s too. I can’t-you can’t uproot your life because of Lily, or-or because of me. I’m sure you’ve rescued plenty of Hydra hostages and sent them on their way. Why should I be any different?”

Steve lets go of you and sighs, face finally letting go of the blinding smile. Your wrist hurts a little.

“Look, normally, yes, we send former prisoners to a therapy facility or something, but you-Lily needed someone to look after her and when she latched onto Buck, we couldn’t send her to a foster home or something to be lost in the system.”

Your stomach turns at the idea of Lily being alone with strangers and an overbooked caseworker.

“So, you’re different. You-she-I feel responsible for making sure you’re okay because they never would’ve taken you if we’d just brought you in like everyone else.”

He looks out at the lake, eyes glinting in the sun. There’s no tears or signs of sadness, but you feel his mood shift. It rolls over you, and you reach out to him to gently place your hand on his arm.

“Hey, what happened-what they did-what Rumlow did-“

His mouth hardens into a line.

“Those were their decisions, okay? It’s their-their belief and what they choose to believe and what they choose to do to enforce the belief doesn’t reflect on you. You’re one of the good guys, so as long as you keep fighting the bad ones, nothing they do will ever reflect on you.”

He smiles again, closed-lipped now, and the soft expression he looks at you with makes your heartbeat pick up a little.

“Why don’t you give me the tour?”

He takes your hand again, gentler this time, and leads you up to the house. His enthusiasm is contagious as he shows you Lily’s room. It’s beautiful, with a large mural of a tree on one wall. The branches have little half-circle shelves at the ends, filled with her books. A white bed with a chiffon-like canopy stands opposite. The floors are wood, covered in a shaggy green rug to mimic grass. Her toy chest and dresser have been painted to match the bed, similar fabric curtains softening the light flooding in from outside.

“Steve, did you do all this?”

“Well, the builders did most everything, but this has been my special project. Oh, look at this!”

He brings the blinds down and shuts off the light. The ceiling, previously a deep blue-purple color, begins to glow dimly.

“It’s glow in the dark paint. The dots make up constellations.”

He whisks you on to the room across the hall.

“Now, I painted the furniture and added one or two things, but everything else should be the same.”

Your bed, now black where it had been brown, is a welcome sight. You run your hand over the deep purple comforter, inhale the familiar scent of lavender from a candle burning on your dresser. Windows flank either side of your bed, the same soft white curtains from Lily’s room hanging from gold curtain rods with ornate leaf-like ends. A large mirror with a black mosaic tile frame has been affixed above your dresser on the wall opposite the windows and bed. You pause, noticing the dresser drawer knobs have been changed to match the gold of the curtain rods. The far wall has two more windows, but beyond those, it’s covered in the pile of photos you’d had on your dresser at the apartment. Some are of Lily, some of the both of you, and the rest are of the park near the apartment. All black and white, your favorite way to shoot.

“I didn’t find a camera with the photos at the apartment, so consider this the cherry on top for the house. I thought that being near the trees and the lake you could take more photos.”

The camera Steve holds out is more than anything you could ever hope to afford. There’s a bag with a sunflower printed camera strap laying on the bed. You take the camera from him gingerly and attach the strap. The bag has a fold-up reflector, two tripods, and a couple of different attachments. You breathe out Steve’s name, a thank you on your tongue, but he cuts you off.

“I want you to be able to enjoy living here. When I came out of the ice, I spent a lot of time throwing myself into old hobbies to cope. I thought it could help with the shift.”

You slip the strap over your neck and hold the camera up to your face.

“How do I look?”

Steve smiles softly, not answering immediately. You’re suddenly very aware of how intently he’s looking at you and a blush creeps up your neck.

“We-we should go get Lily. She’ll be so excited to-to see her toys and things.”

You set the camera down just as gently as you picked it up. You look at it one last time before the pair of you go back to the car.

“So, you like the house?”

Steve’s voice is apprehensive, to say the least, and you give him the best smile you can muster.

“It’s more than I could have ever hoped for.”

Lily races around the house squealing with joy for nearly an hour. Steve beams when she launches into the “big girl bed” and points at the mural.

“Momma! Momma did you see my tree?!”

“Yes, baby, Momma saw.”

“Momma! Momma did you see my books?! My tree holds my books!”

“Yes, baby, Momma saw.”

You swear you’ve said it a thousand times already and you know you’ll say it a thousand more before she’s satisfied you’ve seen absolutely everything in the house at least twice. After the excitement wears off, Lily falls asleep on the green rug, her favorite rabbit toy tucked under her arm. You lift her up, tuck her into the cloud-like covers, and shut the door with a soft _snik_ behind you. Bucky and Steve are speaking softly when you walk into the living area, causing a prompt end to their discussion.

“Don’t mind me, I’m just going to make her a snack for when she wakes up.”

Steve, after everything else, stocked the kitchen with anything you could think to need. His generosity is dizzying when you pause to think about it. A hand on your back causes a momentary freeze, Steve coming up behind you and taking the box in your hand away.

“Let me.”

“You’ve done enough for us.”

“I’ll happily do more.”

It’s the final word on the matter. You sink onto the couch in Steve’s former seat. It’s warm and you breathe in the smell of his cologne. Something deep in your stomach warms a little. Bucky strikes up a conversation with you, but you’re not actively thinking about his words. Your mind drifts, wondering what it might be like to smell Steve’s cologne all the time. Here, in a familiar spot on the couch, or in the kitchen. In the vacant space of your bed. This thought makes your entire body warm. You brush it away shortly after. It’s out of the question. 


	5. Chapter 5

Tension.

Palpable tension.

Both Steve and Bucky are outdoing one another to hold your attention. Bucky enrolls Lily in a prestigious private school. Steve takes her and picks her up every day, despite your insistence you are capable of doing it yourself. Lily says he doesn’t talk much but puts on music she like so she can sing along. Steve presents Lily with a new toy at least twice a week. Bucky drops by with enough groceries to feed a family three times yours' size. Bucky sleeps on the couch one night, too tired after staying up with Lily watching movies to drive home. Steve follows suit two days later. It’s almost suffocating, but to refuse their kindness makes you feel weird. Then Steve is called away for a mission. The chivalrous line of not allowing you to do anything deemed inconveniencing is gone. You and Bucky take Lily to school. You and Bucky stay up watching movies with her, waking up tangled on the couch. You both blush and avoid being on your own for the rest of the day. You lessen Bucky’s gift-giving, explaining his time is gift enough. The three of you go to the city on the weekends, watch Lily skip through parks and outdoor markets. Lily and Bucky connive together to surprise you with a bouquet of tiger lilies. After two months of Steve being gone, Bucky effectively corners you after putting Lily down for a nap one afternoon. You’re peeling apples, trying your hand at making a pie, (or maybe a crumble because it’s easier than dealing with the flimsy pie crust) when he comes up behind you. His hands rest on your waist, and you pause.

“Hey, c’mere for a second.”

“Can it wait until I’m done with this mess?”

“No.”

His tone is playful, and you set down your knife. When you turn to face him, he doesn’t move, hands still on your waist and face just a few inches from yours.

“H-Hi.”

Your voice shakes. You haven’t been this close to anyone other than Lily in months. Unease rears its head, shaken awake by the way Bucky looks down at you. He doesn’t say anything at first, just stares, eyes flickering all over your face.

“Bu-Bucky, can you give me some space?”

He withdraws only slightly.

“Steve’s been gone for a few months and won’t be back for at least another. I know you…I know he was trying to win you over and if it worked, great, but if not I want you to give me a chance.”

You blink, processing.

“Are you asking me to go out with you?”

“No, because we’re not fifteen. I’m asking you if you will go to dinner with me. One night, it’s all I ask. If you don’t want to then no big deal. We’ll never speak of it again.”

You turn back to the counter. You stare at your hands, braced against the countertop as if you’re holding to it for dear life. In a way, maybe you are. A step forward with Bucky means a step away from the routine the three of you have. Lily would think what exactly? What does she think now? Bucky was the one to look after her while you were with Hydra. Steve’s efforts with her were wonderful, but the connection was never the same as Bucky’s. Steve’s efforts benefited you more than anyone else, always following Bucky’s example when it came to Lily. His attitude when he’d first shown you the house still set your teeth on edge a little. A relationship with Steve, a life with Steve, would be…would be what? Full of anything you could ever ask for before you asked for it? Is a life like that what you wanted?

“Hey, it’s okay to say no.”

Bucky’s voice breaks through the fog and his ability to do so is the only answer you need.

“When?”

You still aren’t looking at him. A gentle pull on your arm makes you let go of the countertop lifeline, gripping him instead.

“Don’t do this because you want to make me happy. I want you to do what’s going to make you happy, what’s going to benefit Lily, not whatever you think will appease me.”

It sounds simple enough.

“Steve wanted to win me over by providing for her, but you…you’re here for Lily first, not me. I came after and-and she is more important than any relationship I could have with someone else. Do-Can you understand that?”

You finally look at him, eyes meeting his with the steeliest resolve you have. He’s smiling softly, and when he nods, relief floods through you. He looks off, his smile twitching a little.

“You know, she was-she was so scared of me when your neighbor let me in. She was crying and she asked where you were, and I-I didn’t know what to say. I had younger sisters when-before the war, but none that young. All I wanted was to say whatever would make her stop crying, because seeing her cry was tearing me apart. She’s had me wrapped around her finger ever since, y’know? It’s-I don’t know how to explain it.”

You understand, despite his lack of explanation. It’s the same way you felt when you had held Lily for the first time. She’d been early and when she cried, when she screamed, it had seemed impossible for something so small to make such a big sound. You take his hand, squeezing softly, and lean your head against his shoulder.

“So, when?”

When ends up being about a week later. Natasha appears out of thin air to watch Lily, showing up at the house a half-hour before you’re meant to leave. You hadn’t been to dinner with anyone in years. You’ve torn your dresser and closet apart trying to make an outfit work. Acutely aware of your growing exasperation, Natasha sweeps through the mess you’ve made. She spends less than thirty seconds looking over everything before scooping up a few different pieces and piling them into your arms.

“There.”

“But I-“

She tuts at you.

“ _There_.”

The outfit looks good, to your surprise, and you tug at the shirt as you head out the door. You and Bucky had agreed to something casual-ish. Black jeans and a plain, but nice-looking, green shirt, topped off with your favorite cream button-up sweater. You glance at yourself in the rearview, wiping a smudge of mascara away before taking a deep breath. Is this really happening? Are you really going forward with this? You look in the rearview again, seeing Lily on the front porch swing.

_Yes._

Bucky has flowers for you, because why wouldn’t he, and spends the night treating you like a queen. You end the night watching the sun go down over the lakefront. He gets a phone call there, walking away to answer, and sighing upon return.

“We-I have to go to the hangar. I’m sorry-I-“

“I’ll go with, it’s alright.”

“I don’t want to-I feel bad making you go there. We’ve been having such a nice time and-“

“If we’re together then it will still be a nice time, Bucky.”

You take his hand, place a kiss on his cheek, and it’s enough to satisfy him. The hangar is forty-some odd minutes away. You hum along to whatever music Bucky plays, stay in the car when he pulls up outside the massive space, and watch the sky fade to its nighttime black. He’s been gone for a while when you see the lights, growing brighter as the quinjet comes in for a landing. It lands, engines rumbling to a stop, and you turn in your seat to watch figures exit. A familiar head of blonde hair shakes off a helmet, now accompanied by a rather full beard.

 _Steve_.

He pauses when he sees the car, and you sink down in your seat. It’s good to see him, but not now. Not when Bucky is coming back soon, and your flowers are sitting in your lap, screaming “I’m a gift!” In an effort to shush them, you turn to put them in the backseat. Steve is walking towards the car. You turn back quickly, forgetting to place the flowers. He comes up to the driver's side, peers in, and smiles. He taps on the glass and you roll down the window.

“Hey, you. Are you my welcome party?”

The implications of his question make you flush.

“No, I-I didn’t know you were coming back tonight. I-Bucky had to come here for something, and I came with him.”

“We weren’t supposed to return for another couple weeks but things went-“

He pauses. His eyes are on the flowers in your lap. He slowly moves his gaze, analyzing your outfit, your face. You’ve been laughing, smiling, and the crinkles at the edges of your eyes have collected soft smudges of eyeliner.

“Awry. You’re wearing makeup.”

You nod, feigning a smile.

“Yeah, I, um, I-“

“Where’d you get those?”

He points at the flowers. They’re roses, a shining beacon of explanation. He crosses to the passenger door, opens it and beckons you out.

“Come here.”

Steve’s mouth is a hard line, brow furrowed slightly, and you set the roses aside. When you step out, his hand immediately has a hold of your arm.

“You said you were here with Bucky.”

It’s not a question.

“Yes, he-“

“Where were you before you came here with him?”

He’s gripping your upper arm. It’s not a friendly touch and his hand tightens a little when you don’t answer immediately.

“We- _I_ was just-“

“We?”

“Steve! You’re back!”

Bucky doesn’t see the way Steve is holding you. He lets go before Bucky has a chance. Your arm hurts where his fingers had been. You’re shaking and when you walk to Bucky, he immediately sees the anxiety on your face.

“Hey, what wrong with-“

“Seems you’ve been busy, Buck. Roses? Very romantic.”

You press yourself against Bucky as if the closer he was to you the more likely it was you would disappear into him. This isn’t what you wanted. You suspected Steve would be a little upset, but this was something else. This was anger, and envy maybe, and it made your shaking worse.

“Hey, yeah, I was-“

“I see that.”

Steve’s eyes are narrowed, his entire body coiled tightly as he walks forward. He claps Bucky on the shoulder and smirks. 

“Hey, remember what Rumlow said, Buck? She’s like velvet. I’m sure you’ll have a great time.”

Your skin crawls. You say nothing on the way home. When Bucky offers to walk you in, you simply shake your head and trudge up the steps. You leave the roses in the car. When you stagger in, Natasha is sitting at the kitchen table.

“Hey, how’d it go?”

You run to the sink and vomit.

*****

You take Lily to school alone for the next week. When Bucky calls, you don’t answer the phone. When Lily asks where he is, you lie. He’s busy. He’s working. He’s on a mission. She throws her first tantrum in ages when Bucky is there to read her a goodnight story. Screamed out, red-faced, and exhausted, she passes out on the couch. You don’t have the energy to move her and fall asleep on the other end. A single text chime stirs you early in the morning.

"I’m sorry."

It’s not from Bucky. Another chime.

"I should never have said such an awful thing to you. About you."

 _Steve_.

"Have lunch with me so I can make it up to you."

Something in your head whispers _no_. Whispers _forgiveness excuses behavior_. Your hands are shaking as you respond. 

"When?"


	6. Chapter 6

Your skin is tinged yellow where Steve’s fingers had held your arm. You postpone the lunch once, twice, then three times before finally sticking to the date. You hide the fingerprint marks under a jacket as you head off towards the city. Lily begs to go with you, but you know you have to leave her. You reluctantly text Bucky, a simple request to watch her while you went into the city. You brushed off questions with a grocery run excuse. He offers to do it for you, to take you and her himself, but you do your best to stave him off. When he gets to the house, he asks again if you’re sure about going yourself.

“I just need a little bit to myself. She’s been tantrum city since you-well, since the last time you were here. Just have her down for a nap at her usual time, y’know? I shouldn’t be long.”

The restaurant Steve chose looks over the city skyline and the sun shines brightly onto the patio. You wait for 5, then 10 minutes, then 15. Steve rushes in after 25 minutes of keeping you waiting, sinking into the chair opposite you with a large sigh.

“You’re-“

“Late, I know. I’m sorry, I got caught up at the hangar.”

“Right. So, what do you want?”

Your tone is icy as you fiddle with one of the three forks in front of you. A waitress fills your cups with cucumber water and asks Steve what he’d like. He says to keep the waters coming and turns back to you. She makes a face but walks away.

“I asked you here to apologize.”

“You could have done that over the phone.”

“It’s not the same as face-to-face, you know that.”

“So, get on with it.”

“With what?”

“The _apology_.”

“I thought we could eat first.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Why would you come to lunch if you’re not hungry?”

“I didn’t come here to have lunch with you, Steve.”

His face darkens a little. He leans back in his chair to glower at you and you feel yourself begin to shrink.

_No. No shrinking. No cowering. Take no more shit._

You straighten up a little and lean forward.

“You asked me here to give me an apology. Despite my better judgment, I came to listen. I don’t know how you think an apology will make up for it. What you said to me was _horrendous_. You know what they-what he-put me through, and yet you have the _audacity_ to say something so horrible. And why? Because you got in yourself twisted up in a knot over me going on a date with someone I care for, someone who’s _been_ _here_ _with me_ while you’ve been off. You are on missions constantly, and you want me, who you’ve shown little interest in beyond throwing money at, to what? Wait dutifully for your quinjet to land like it’s the 40s again and I’m some sweetheart you left behind? Fuck that noise. I have a child to take care of, Steve, and Bucky? Bucky wants to take care of her with me. It’s no secret he’s been the one to connect with her since day one, and you being gone all the time? I could never, and would never, ask for you to have more than a surface connection with Lily. It’s your job to save the world and a kid has no place in your life when you have that job. Which is fine, but you want me, then Lily comes with, because like it or not, I am always her mother _first_. Before any other relationship, I am _hers_ first. Bucky gets that. He understands, chooses to understand, how a relationship with me would function with Lily involved. You? You couldn’t tell me a damn thing about her. On top of that, your behavior at the hangar raises so many red flags. You were dangerous, and a danger to me is a danger to her.”

You stop to catch your breath, the months of tension lifting from your chest. Steve’s eyes never leave your face through your entire speech. 

“After all the things I’ve done for you, for her, you think I don’t feel a little entitled to some affection on your part?”

You wrinkle your nose at the idea.

“You want to take it all back? Go ahead. I’ll go home, pick up our life in New York, and forget you faster than you’d believe.”

You pause and choose your next words carefully.

“Maybe Bucky would come with us, be part of our life there, and forget you too.”

Steve stands, knocking his chair back onto the floor. Other patrons of the restaurant pause their meals as they watch him stare you down. You stand slowly, matching the intensity of his gaze as best you can.

“Are you going to apologize, or did I drive out here for nothing?”

When he doesn’t respond, you turn on your heel to go, absolutely fuming. An arm grabs you, right where he had in the hangar, and something in you breaks. You loose your hand across his cheek.

“Never touch me again,” you snarl. Your slap did little to deter him, but it was enough of a shock for you to wrench yourself out of his hand. You stomp out, ignoring the stunned restaurant guests and staff. You speed home, taking the corners of the road a little faster than necessary. When you squeal into the drive and throw the car in park, Bucky races out to the porch. You slam the door shut, stomp past him, and grunt as you flop onto the couch.

“Uh, thought you were getting groceries.”

You snort derisively and start to chew on the inside of your cheek.

“Lily’s down for her nap should be up soon. You, uh, wanna talk about why you went to get groceries when the fridge is full, then came home with no groceries, in the worst mood I’ve ever seen you in?”

You rip off your jacket and hold your arm out. He looks closely, face hardening when he sees the soft yellow hues on your skin.

“Is this what happened the other night with Steve? At the hangar?”

You toss the jacket onto the nearby chair in a huff. When Bucky touches your shoulder, you flinch a little. He slides onto the couch next to you, letting you ease against him at your own rate. When you’ve relaxed enough to loll your head against his shoulder, he pets your hair gently. It’s so easy to fall back into this comfortable position. So easy to be like this, with him, without worrying or thinking you shouldn’t. His right arm snakes across your stomach, fingers dancing across your side in a soft tickle. You squirm a little, unable to stop yourself from smiling.

“Talk to me, doll. What happened today?”

 _Doll_.

Your heart flutters a little. You sigh and look down at his arm. He has a scar running up to his elbow. You trace it with your finger. He stiffens a little and you pause, a sorry ready on your tongue. Bucky shifts his arm a little, the scar now closer to you. You continue running your finger over the raised skin, voice soft as you begin your story.

“Steve asked me to meet him for lunch. He wanted to apologize.”

You pause, snorting again.

“No, he didn’t, he just wanted to make me feel bad for caring about you instead of him. He expects me to want him, because of all this. I told him to shove it. He grabbed me again and I hit him. I just…I couldn’t take it. I didn’t want him to touch me again and I knew-I knew he wouldn’t listen to me if I just said it. He-It’s like he believes he’s entitled, I mean he said it, that he’s entitled to my affection after everything he’s done for me, for Lily. As if I asked him to build this place, to bring me here, and take care of me. I didn’t, and I told him that. I told him I’d just as soon go home and take you with me for good measure. He didn’t like that.”

Bucky chuckles softly close to your ear.

“Take me with you, huh?”

You nod, suddenly aware of what you had said and what it meant. You wiggle out from under his arm, wanting as much distance as you can get. Your entire body feels warm, too warm, and you want to throw yourself into an ice bath. Bucky isn’t letting you go so easily.

“So, what? We’d live in that tiny apartment by the park? Your neighbor giving me side-eye every time she sees me with Lily? Only one bedroom in that apartment. We’d be close together.”

Your cheeks flush and you stand up, heading for the kitchen. Bucky plants himself in your way.

“We could go somewhere else, somewhere bigger. A room for Lily and a room for us.”

He pauses slightly before the “us.” You swallow hard. He’s staring down at you, a knowing smirk on his face, and you push past him. You find yourself at the countertop again, Bucky close behind you, and you’re gripping the countertop again. The crossroads are laid out in front of you. The idea of jumping forward is tantalizingly sweet. You squeeze your eyes shut. You could cry. There’s no logical reason to cry, which means you shouldn’t, and yet here you were. Your arms shake. The culmination of your encounter with Steve, of your fear of your future, of the future you and Lily, it’s all too much. Bucky doesn’t say anything, just turns you to face him. Tears spill over, staining his shirt, and you tremble against him. He shushes you softly, bringing you back to the couch. By the time you’ve calmed down, you’re curled up into his lap, sniffling against his right shoulder. The little pitter-patter of feet across the floor draws your attention.

“Momma, you cryin’?”

You smile down at her, wiping the tears from your face.

“Just a little bit baby. It’s okay, Momma’s okay now.”

She crawls up into your lap. Bucky adjusts slightly but doesn’t move either of you. You’re thankful, comfortable, and Bucky presses his lips to your forehead gently. Without meaning to, you lean into it. Lily is none the wiser, watching the tv light up with Peppa Pig, as you angle your face up to Bucky’s. When the two of you pull apart, you’re both smiling. Lily sings along to the tv, bouncing a little. You turn your face into Bucky’s shoulder again, wondering if this is what life in New York would be like.


	7. Chapter 7

Bucky requests time off to keep him out of the field as the two of you step forward with your relationship. It’s denied and he’s immediately called up for a month-long mission somewhere in Russia. Steve, conveniently, doesn’t have to go. He’s leaning against the wall of the hangar, watching Lily have a meltdown with a slight smirk. You ignore him, trying to deal with Lily’s howls of despair. Bucky shushes her, petting her hair and bouncing her a little in his arms.

“I’ll be back before you know it, sweetheart.”

She wails in response and you share a look with Bucky. He looks like he could start crying along with her. Natasha appears, telling Bucky they’re lifting off in less than 5 minutes. Lily hiccups in the midst of her tears. When you take her from Bucky, she wiggles in your hands, going limp as a means of evading your grip. You load her into the backseat of the car as she beats her little fists against your chest. Bucky comes around and leans in, handing Lily something.

“I want you to keep these safe while I’m gone, okay? I’m trusting you to be brave for me and these will help. You gotta be strong for your Momma, she’s sad too, y’know?”

Lily pouts.

“Doesn’t look sad.”

She fiddles with whatever he’s handed her, then puts it around her neck. The dog tags are far too big, hanging down to her waist.

“She is and she’s going to miss me just as much as you. You’ll have to support each other. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

She sniffles, wipes the snot on her face onto her arm, and huffs. She nods and flings her arms around his neck. You grimace, knowing she’s just gotten snot into his hair. You walk with him back into the hangar.

“I’m sorry. She’s hardly ever like this.”

Bucky shakes his head, smiling.

“It’s alright. She’s just like her mother, y’know. Passionate about the people she loves.”

He meets your eyes and you blush.

“Come back safe, please. I don’t know what she’d do if you didn’t.”

He puts a hand against your cheek, rubbing softly with his thumb. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead and with a call from Natasha, heads to the quinjet.

The mission lasts two weeks. You get a text from Steve in the midst of Bucky’s absence, asking if you’re alright. You block his number.

“Surprising how efficient Bucky can be with the right motivation,” Nat muses when they return. You meet them at the hangar. Bucky stumbles off the jet, visibly exhausted, with dried blood on his jacket and pants. He smiles wearily when he sees you, wraps you in a loose embrace, and tells you to wait in the car until he’s changed. Steve is leaning against the hangar wall again and approaches when Bucky leaves the space.

“I tried to check up on you while he was gone.”

You don’t answer, continuing towards the car.

“You can’t be angry at me forever.”

“Watch me,” you hiss, climbing into the passenger seat. You cross your arms and rest your head against the back of the seat, staring up at the ceiling.

“Momma, where’s Bucky?”

“He’s on his way.”

Steve waves at her in the backseat and you hear the click of the seatbelt. You’ve got the child lock on, thank God, as you think you’d explode if he held her.

“Momma! I wanna see Steeb!”

You shake your head, more to yourself than at her.

“No, get back in your seat.”

“Momma! Steeb!”

“Lily, get buckled in, Bucky will be here soon.”

“But, Momma-“

“Dammit, Lily, get back in the seat!”

Your words shock both of you. You’d never yelled, not like that, and you hear her whimper. When you turn around, her bottom lip wobbles and her cheeks are turning red.

“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry. Momma is so sorry, she didn’t mean to yell. It’s not your fault, please don’t cry baby. Please, just buckle in.”

She doesn’t cry, just silently gets back into her seat and buckles up. You glance out the window to see Steve, a yard or so from the car, watching with a raised eyebrow. You huff and stare straight ahead. You think maybe if you stare hard enough, you’ll bore a hole through the glass. When Bucky gets in, the sound causes you to jump.

“How are my girls?”

Lily sniffles from the backseat.

“Momma yelled at me.”

Bucky pauses in starting the car. He looks at you, eyes searching your face for an explanation. You jut your chin over your shoulder where Steve is standing, now talking with Natasha.

“Ah.”

Lily sniffles again. Bucky turns back to her.

“Hey, sweetheart, I’m sorry your momma yelled. I’m sure it was scary. Hey, did you keep my tags safe for me?”

Her face lights up immediately and brandishes them at him.

“Yes, I keep them in a safe place!”

“Oh really, where’s that?”

“Nuh-uh, it’s a secret place.”

Bucky laughs a little, starting to drive off. You spend too much time staring out the window, not focusing on the conversation between Bucky and Lily. When the car stops in front of the house, Lily rockets our of her seat. Bucky takes her in with his duffel, but you hold back. You drift to the dock, taking off your shoes to let your feet rest in the cool lake water. The sky had faded to twilight when Bucky comes out to get you. He sits next to you on the dock, one knee held up in the crook of his elbow.

“You wanna talk about what happened with Lil’?”

You sigh.

“Steve tried to talk to me, to Lily, and I just snapped. She wanted to see him and I-I don’t want him near her, near me, near us!”

Bucky doesn’t say anything at first, just rests his head on your shoulder.

“I don’t want the two of you to fight. He’s been my best friend for as long as I can remember, but I don’t want to force you to forgive him.”

You lay back onto the worn wood, watching the stars begin to shine above you.

“Maybe we should go back to New York.”

Bucky is over you suddenly, eyes wide with what could be fear.

“Don’t say that, please. I don’t know what I’d do if you left. Both of you.”

You start to sit up, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he places his hands on either side of your head, bracing himself over you. You can feel his breath on your face. There’s a split second of fear, of feeling concrete on your back instead of wood, and Bucky feels it. He draws back, but it’s not what you want. Your hand is on the back of his neck, holding him near you.

“I don’t-I don’t know how to do this.”

The words tumble from your lips in a jumbled mess.

“I mean, I don’t wanna brag, but I do have a bit of practice.”

Bucky chuckles and you shake your head.

“No, I mean, I haven’t done this. The closeness of-of this.”

Bucky pulls back again.

“You’ve had a baby with someone. What could be closer than that?”

You laugh. You don’t mean to, but the idea of closeness, of intimacy, with Lily’s father.

“We weren’t, I mean, it was complicated. We were young. _I_ was young.”

“What do you mean?”

“We happened at a bad time. He expected a one-night thing and I-I didn’t know any better. He was the first person I’d ever been with, first to show any interest in me. He had a wife, a family of his own, and he-well, he was doing what was best for him. He helped out while I was pregnant, bought a crib I picked out and one of those nice strollers, the ones all those fit moms jog with? He left the lilies at my apartment a few days after she was born with a thousand-dollar check. It was tagged with “diapers and stuff.” I felt bad for his wife.”

Bucky’s face is one of pity, sadness even, and you put a hand on his cheek.

“Hey, it’s alright. I’m over it. I got Lily out of it and I’d say that’s a pretty good result.”

Bucky nods a little, but you know he’s still thinking about Lily’s father. You rub your thumb across his cheek, and he kisses your palm.

“So, closeness?”

“Foreign subject.”

“Sounds like you need a teacher.”

You push against his shoulder, laughing.

“You’re a cheeseball.”

He smothers you in a kiss, pulling you up to straddle his lap. You wiggle when he kisses down your neck, the sensation tickling you softly. The scruff on his chin scratches against your jaw and the feeling makes you squirm, but not from being tickled. A soft groan escapes and Bucky pauses.

“Doll?”

 _Doll_.

The pet name floods your stomach with butterflies. He rakes his metal hand down your back, resting on your slightly exposed hip. Your shirt has ridden up a little and the metal is cool against your skin. He nibbles at your collarbone, causing you to whimper. The sound of the porch door slamming open and shut causes both of you to split apart suddenly. Lily is bounding towards the two of you, her rabbit toy in tow. She plants herself in Bucky’s lap, giggling when he tickles her stomach. The three of you make your way back to the house. Bucky gives your waist a quick squeeze when Lily isn’t looking and plants another kiss on your neck. You find yourself lying awake in the night, watching the shadows on your wall change as time passes. When you can’t stand it anymore, you tiptoe out to the couch where Bucky is sprawled out. You crouch, poking at him until he grumbles awake. Wordlessly, you pull him off the couch and lead him to your room. You lay him down next to you, resting your head on his chest.

“Was wondering when you were gonna come get me, doll.”


	8. Chapter 8

When Bucky presents you with a ring made of one of his dog tags eight months after the first date fiasco, Steve plays his part as dutiful best man. You wear a simple dress, a silk-like material, with two barely-there straps to hold it up. The ceremony is held at sunset on the lakeside dock. You don’t wear a veil. Lily weaves a crown of lilies for you to wear instead with help from Natasha. Bucky wears a white button-up, rolled up to the sleeves, black slacks, and a pair of dress shoes he has to borrow from Steve. The ceremony is short, sweet, and Lily skips around through the whole thing, throwing flower petals over everyone’s feet. You beam throughout the day, Steve’s heart fluttering every time you smile. Never at him, as a matter of fact you ignore him most of the day. He disgusts you and forgiveness has never been an option for you. Steve officiates, despite how much it pains him, and he does a good job of masking his emotions. Natasha, ever perceptive, doesn’t buy it for a second. She corners him after the ceremony ends.

“How ya holding up?”

“Better than expected.”

“He’s never been happier,” she says, looking at Bucky. He’s dancing around with Lily, who’s squealing with delight. You’re standing to the side, leaning against one of the posts on the porch. Though tired, you’re still glowing.

“I know.”

“Will you be alright?”

“Guess we’ll see.”

You’ve never felt more joy, watching Lily laugh as Bucky lifts her high into the air. Steve and Natasha are chatting quietly nearby. You’d searched for someone else to officiate, but Bucky asked you for this one favor. You couldn’t deny him the one wish. He’d thanked you thousand times over. You’d seen the twitch in Steve’s jaw all day, wondered if he’d show at all, but ever loyal to Bucky, he did his duty. He’d carefully interacted with you, speaking only when necessary. Natasha has offered to take care of Lily while you and Bucky go on a honeymoon to some island. You close your eyes, lean into the imagined breeze rolling in from the sea, and you swear you can feel the warm sand under your feet. You leave on a quinjet early in the morning, each of your pressing kisses to Lily’s forehead while she sleeps. Comfortable silence surrounds the drive to the hangar. Steve is there, prepping the quinjet for the two of you. You don’t say anything when he nods at you or when he asks if you want help loading the bags. You simply turn away, unwilling to acknowledge any piece of his involvement in your happiness. It’s easier than dealing with the crisis of emotions which arise when he’s near.

The island is somewhere off the coast of Spain. It’s Tony Stark’s, technically, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. When the jet lands, Bucky takes the bags up to the villa while you take in the view. It’s almost sunset, the sky just beginning to tinge pink over the waves. You follow a path down to the beach, your dress fluttering around your knees as the breeze picks up. You slip off your sandals, sink your toes into the sand, softened until white, and sigh deeply.

“Is it a white wedding?” Natasha had asked you. Your skin crawls a little as you think of the expected waiting for you in the villa. There’s lead in your blood, holding you to your spot in the sand. To ruin this moment with hands-on you would be a sin. Flashes of the cement cell, of Rumlow invading your mouth and his hands squeezing uncomfortably, roll across your thoughts. Bucky wasn’t Rumlow, would never be so cruel, but…

Hydra trained him, made him into something else, and if any of it remained, would he use it on you? Use it against you? To think him capable of such atrocities makes you feel ashamed, feel guilty, but the idea still pushes against your positive outlook. You wrap your pullover tighter around you, a chill suddenly seeping under your skin. There’s the crunch of shoes on the sand behind you and a gentle hand on your arm. Though you know who it is and heard him coming, you still flinch a little. Bucky wraps his arms around your waist, rests his chin on your shoulder.

“I can hear you thinking.”

You mumble an affirmation.

“Talk to me, doll.”

You tremble slightly. You can imagine the disappointment in his face, the sadness in his eyes, which will convince you to hand yourself over.

“Hey, what is it?”

He turns you to face him, finger on your chin, lifting your face so you have no choice but to look at him.

“I see you’re upset. I don’t want you to be afraid to talk to me.”

Despite the shaking, despite the apprehension, you look at him. His expression is the softest you’ve ever seen it. His hands rest on your waist, careful to avoid your hips so as to keep you comfortable. The gentle kisses and touches of the past months are less than what he wants, you know it. You know what he wants, but to hand it to him, is too much. The shakes get worse.

“Doll…”

It’s such a simple word, but it’s enough to pull you out of your head.

“I’m-I’m afraid. Afraid of what happens now. What-what happens there.”

You look to the villa behind his head.

“What happens now? What are you talking about?”

You’ve always been shy about matters of sex. Even when you had Lily, the conception was vanilla. Lights off, missionary, and no climax for you. One time was all it had taken and next to nothing followed. There wasn’t time for anything outside Lily, not until Bucky came into the picture. You’re properly embarrassed now, cheeks blushing hotly. A smile curls across Bucky’s face. He finds your shyness endearing. Now, though, he sees how much you're struggling, how much fear is gripping you.

“Nothing has to happen now, or ever. Do you understand that?”

Your only response is another tremble. His finger on your chin pushes a little more now, insistent you look at him. He repeats his question, voice lowering a little.

“Doll? Do you understand that?”

You nod slowly, the negative thought still tugging in the back of your mind. He leads you back up to the villa, starts fixing something in the kitchen. You sink into a lavish couch, let the overstuffed cushions consume you as the tv plays some tv movie about love in a small town. You close your eyes, listen to the clatter of pots and sizzle of food. It’s shrimp and noodles in a garlic butter sauce. Delicious and warm, it soothes your frayed nerves. The food makes you tired, letting your head fall against Bucky’s shoulder as he flips through the channels. He settles on a documentary over the fall of Rome. You let him pull you into his lap, resting yourself against his chest. He kisses your forehead, whispers he loves you.

When you wake up, you’re resting next to him in a large bed. The room surrounding you is bathed in whites and creams. Moonlight streams in from a large window, curtains flowing out in tendrils as the ocean breeze drifts in. Bucky is shirtless next to you. His scars shine slightly under the pale light. You run a fingertip along the ridge where his arm adheres to his skin. He twitches in his sleep and you recoil. You slip out of the bed, pad softly to the large bathroom. You don’t want to stand, so you run a bath. The tub is comical in size, jets following the edge of it in a ring. You let the water run a little too warm, a small part of you somewhere deep in your chest enjoying the scald as you slip in. You lean your head back against the tub edge, listening again to the sound of the sea. The waves lapping on the shore echo throughout the silent house. Even after the water cools, you stay in. You’ve shared a bed with Bucky before, let him hold you while he slept, but the thought of going back into the bed with him is terrifying. Your skin is pink from the water. You press your thumb against your knee, watching the white spot it leaves to dissipate. A soft call of your name stirs you from the fog. Bucky stands in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. You look down at yourself through the water. You don’t want him to see you, to see the scars Rumlow left behind, and the shakes return. Bucky kneels next to you, notices your pink knees.

“You boiling yourself in here?”

You smile, force a soft laugh, but he sees through it. Concern flashes, then realization, and he furrows his features.

“C’mere, baby.”

He reaches in and pulls on your hand. You hesitate, eying the pile of towels off on a side shelf.

“Will you trust me, please?”

Water sloshes around you as you stand, water dripping off you in waterfalls. You can’t meet his eye. To be this vulnerable is almost more than you can take. You expect his hands on you, guiding you back to the bed, diving into you. Instead, a towel wraps around your shoulders. He uses a corner to wipe away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. He helps you out of the tub, follows you when you walk back into the bedroom. The moonlight makes the bed look ghostly. Water still drips from your hair down your back and a shiver runs up your spine as the droplets tickle your skin.

“I’ll get you a shirt.”

 _No_.

You don’t realize you’ve said it out loud until Bucky stops.

“No?”

“N-No.”

It’s little more than a whisper this time.

“Okay, do you want any clothes?”

“No.”

“Can you tell me what you do want?”

You tug the towel tighter around your shoulders for a moment before letting it fall away from you. You sit on the edge of the bed, let him come up to stand in front of you. He cups your face with his hands.

“Doll…”

He pauses, rubs his thumb along your cheekbone.

“Say something.”

You take his hand from your cheek and let it fall down your neck to rest on your collarbone.

“It’s okay.”

It’s all he needs. His touch is firm, without force. His hands grip your hips, but it’s not possessive. He never holds you as a means of claiming you. Only as a way to remind you he loves you, cares for you, wants you to know what he means to you. It’s not just him holding you, it’s you holding onto him as well. It’s you trying to kiss every piece of him you can get a hold of. To remind him he’s a person, a good person, who deserves the love you’re giving. When you collapse against the pillows, your head on his chest, high on one another, he whispers again and again how he loves you. How nothing will hurt you while he’s around and how he’ll love you until he dies.

And you, for the first time, believe him. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the niceness while you can. Angst is coming.

It’s Lily’s birthday. She’s four, officially, and you spare no expense to make her feel as special as humanly possible. Bucky helps, building her a large swing set on the side of the house, which you surprise her with after a breakfast of blueberry pancakes and bacon. The set is humorously intricate, with multiple levels of treehouse-like landings, two slides, and a small rock wall. She bounds all around and over it, glowing with joy. Natasha stops by later with a gift of her own: a ballerina doll that looks remarkably like Lily, with the same fair hair and big brown eyes. You thank Nat as Lily races to the swing set again, doll in tow, who gives you a small smile.

“It’s the least I can do.”

Steve sends over a gift as well, thankfully not delivering it in person. A miniature four-wheeler set to not go over ten miles an hour. The swing set forgotten, Lily mounts the vehicle and zooms down the drive, doll carefully held in her lap. She squeals and screams. Bucky chuckles as you tut over the four-wheeler, disgruntled at Steve’s “clearly reckless!” gift, and stricken with worry when Lily takes a turn too quickly.

“She’s fine, and you know it. You’re just annoyed because Steve gave it to her. He’s trying, baby.”

“He doesn’t need to be trying. I don’t want him to try.”

The day ends with Lily passed out on the couch, icing smudged around her mouth from the cupcakes you’d made. Bucky cleans her up and whisks her off to bed while you clean up the living room/kitchen. You don’t realize he’s come back into the room until he’s standing behind you, holding your waist in a way that presses your back to his chest.

“Do you ever think you could handle another?”

His voice is very quiet in your ear, breath hot against your neck. You pause in wiping off the counter, setting the washrag to the side. You weigh your answer. Of course, you had thought about what more children would be like, but only when you were on your own. Attempting to juggle a baby and Lily felt foolish at the time, though you knew Lily was likely lonely sometimes. Now, however, you weren’t on your own. For a moment, you picture a little boy wobbling towards you, Bucky’s hands guiding him gently. They have the same dark hair and dimple on their cheek. You can’t help but smile.

“Sometimes. More so now than before when-when I was alone.”

A soft kiss to the corner of your jaw sends a ripple of sparks through you. When you turn to face him, Bucky lifts you to sit on the counter. Instinctively, you lock your ankles together behind his hips. He’s still buried in your neck, murmuring softly.

“We could. I could step away from the team. We could make a whole life here or New York or wherever. Whatever you want, baby, let me give it to you.”

When he nibbles a little, you can’t hold back a gasp.

“You don-don’t have to do th-that. I know wha-what the team means t-to you.”

He pulls away, holds you chin gently between his thumb and pointer finger.

“The team could never mean as much to me as you do, as this family does.”

Silence stands between the two of you as the weight of his words falls over you. Though he’s said he loves you, loves Lily, neither mean as much as this. This means leaving behind not just the team, but Steve as well.

“I don’t want to take you-“

“You wouldn’t be. He understands the dream of a family. He has it too. He just hasn’t gotten to it yet.”

You let your ankles fall away from his waist, burying your face into his flesh shoulder. You feel something burning in your chest, but it’s not joy. You should be reacting, either by kissing him or crying, but where the emotion should be, there’s just the burning.

“I’m not saying we try tonight or any time soon for that matter. I just want you to know where my priorities are.”

You nod, press your lips to the artery in his neck, and slip off the counter. You don’t sleep that night, visions of your life playing over and over like a movie you don’t want to watch. You stare at the ceiling, watch the moonlight change to sunlight, and rise as if the day is normal. You spend the next week like this. Hardly any sleep, but comfortable in the haven of your home nonetheless. When Bucky checks in at the hangar later in the week, you don’t go with him. Usually, you sit on the porch and watch Lily play. Sometimes, you push her on one of the swings or walk with her down to the lakeshore. She collects shells and rocks, placing them in a bucket which she hauls back to the house. She lines them along the sides of the house before you usher her inside to wash up for dinner. She’s asleep by the time Bucky gets home. You greet him by sitting on the counter again.

“Yes.”

He drops a duffel bag by the door and turns to you, bewildered.

“Yes?”

“Yes, I think about having another child. Yes, I’d want to have one with you. Yes, we can build a life here or New York or wherever.”

He cocks his head a little, looking you up and down. You’ve shaved your legs, curled a few pieces of your hair to make it frame your face better, and worn nothing under one of his shirts.

“And are you wanting to start this now?”

“I can’t think of any better time.”

He grins, scoops you off the counter and carries you to your bed. His hands hold onto your thighs, squeezing gently as he presses blistering kisses to your neck and mouth. He lays you down, pulls off his tacti-gear and boots, then pauses. He leans over you, hands planted on either side of your head.

“You want this? You’re sure?”

“Let’s have a baby.”

***

Three weeks of stolen moments when Lily is napping or asleep or with Natasha culminates into one tense two minutes. There are three tests on the guest bathroom counter, each a different type, and you sit on the edge of the bathtub staring at Bucky’s watch. He paces the length of the bathroom, pausing every few seconds to look at the tests and then back at you.

“You’re sure it’s two minutes?”

“Yes.”

He asked the same question thirty seconds ago. The watch beeps and he freezes.

“Are they done?”

“They’re not cookies, they aren’t just “done.”

“Whatever, you know what I mean.”

You take the three in your hand and stare. Negative. Every single one. Bucky groans over you and goes back to pacing.

“You’re going to walk a hole through the floor. These things take time.”

He sighs and stops, coming to stand in front of you. You rest your head against his stomach, and he pets your hair.

“I know, I’m just excited. Besides, this means we get to keep trying.”

He pulls you up to stand in front of him, kissing you hard. His hands snake around your waist, pulling you to him and you moan softly. Lily is in the living room playing. The door to the bathroom is open.

“She’s right out there.”

“Then maybe you should be quieter.”

You laugh at this and push him off. He palms your butt, giving you a soft squeeze before letting go. You discard the tests and wash your hands, asking what he wants for dinner. There’s no pressure, you think, cutting up sweet potatoes half an hour later. If it’s not happening, then it’s not your fault. It’s late when you, half asleep, are rolled onto your back by him. His usual softness is present, but urgency skirts the edge of his movements. You welcome the peek into his rougher streak. A purple circle branded onto your chest in the morning paints a shit-eating grin across Bucky’s face. You blush, having never had a hickey in your life, and swat his hand away when he tries to touch it.

“It’s a good look. I think you should have it all the time.”

He nips at your earlobe and you swat at him again.

“Cut that out, there’s a child in this house.”

“Not in this room.”

He nips again and you bite your lip. Lily is at the kitchen table, coloring something, and the two of you are in the hall. He presses you against the wall, grinds his hips against yours, and pauses. He waits for your permission, but you don’t give it.

It goes on for a couple more weeks like this. Impatience bites at the pair of you. Every moment without Lily present is an opportunity. When Natasha offers to babysit one night, you ask her to take Lily with her so the two of you can have the house to yourself. A flirty line across the counter turns into a romp on the dining room table, and then the couch, and then the hallway wall, before ending in the bedroom. You pull the comforter over your torso and waist, Bucky’s bare body next to you, as you both remember how to breathe. He pulls you into his chest, kisses your forehead, and lets his hand travel lightly over your back.

“You are so perfect. I couldn’t have wished for a better woman if God himself had given me the ability.”

You blush. Though you know he loves you, this doesn’t change your insecurities. He pulls at the comforter, but you don’t let go. To be with him, exposed but joined, is entirely different than being exposed any other time.

“Lemme look at ‘cha.”

“Bucky-“

“Doll, please.”

 _Doll_.

One syllable melts away every wall you build. You let go of the comforter, let him trace nonsense patterns across your skin with his fingers.

“I wish you could see yourself the way I see you,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder. You roll onto your stomach and rest your cheek against your hand.

“Oh really?”

“Mm,” he responds softly, not paying a whole lot of attention as his eyes rake over you. His hand travels over your butt, to your thigh, and rests there for a minute.

“C’mere.”

“Bucky, you gotta let me rest at some point.”

“Yeah, but not right now. Let me worship you, doll.”

And worship he does. Kisses over every inch of skin until he comes to rest between your thighs. Your fingers thread through his hair as you moan his name into the night, again and again, a prayer to whoever is listening.

_Never take him from me._

_Never take him from me._

_Never take him from me_.

A loud knock interrupts your plea to the heavens. You look at each other, then back towards the sound. Bucky runs a hand through his hair, groans, and then presses one more kiss against you. He wipes his mouth before stomping out into the hallway. You check the clock. Nat isn’t supposed to be back for another couple hours. However, Lily’s voice floats across the house.

“Momma?”

You hurriedly pull on Bucky’s discarded shirt and a pair of clean underwear. You’re dressed just in time for Lily to propel herself into your arms.

“Momma, it smells in here.”

You blush, nodding along to her babbling as you walk out into the hallway. Natasha is standing in the kitchen. Bucky stands in the living room, talking with Steve and Sam. The two men are in tactical gear. Nat crosses to stand next to you.

“What happened?”

“Wanda and Vision were attacked in Britain. We barely got them out of there. Some…one is coming. We’re evacuating the country.”

Steve’s face is pale as he talks quietly with Bucky, whose face is turning the same ghostly shade. When the conversation ends, he turns to look at Lily and then you. You set Lily down, send her to pick out a book for bed. The team files out, Steve pausing in the doorway, but deciding against whatever he was going to say and following the rest.

“Nat said they’re evacuating.”

Bucky nods but doesn’t say anything.

“Are-are we-“

He nods again, then takes a deep breath. He pinches the bridge of his nose before engulfing you in a tight embrace.

“They said this is a die before defeat situation.”

Your blood runs cold. You try to pull away to look at him, but he holds fast.

“I will come home to you.”

He pauses and kisses your temple.

“You need to pack. Just for a few days. The safest place to be is in the palace. Everyone in the city is going there.”

You nod numbly.

“They’re waiting outside. Try to be fast.”

The next ten minutes are a blur of stuffing clothes into a bag. Lily is in her pajamas, ever your obedient child, and you tell her to pick out a toy to take. Her ballerina doll, of course, and a book about cats. You pull on leggings and sandals, throwing your hair up in a bun before joining Bucky in the living room. Lily’s head is on your shoulder and he reaches out to pet her hair before looking at you. His eyes are steely, determined, and he kisses your forehead before locking onto your gaze. 

“I _will_ come home to you.”


	10. Chapter 10

_I **will** come home to you_

_I **will** come home to you_

_I **will** come home to you_

The words play over and over in your head. It’s a prayer now, silently repeated to whoever is listening, full of hope and promise.

_He will come home to me_

_He will come home to me_

_He will come home to me_

You focus on the tangible. Lily’s hair under your hand, the scent of her shampoo drifting up into your nose, and the hard concrete under you. Your shirt tag is itching your neck and your arms are slightly chilled, having given your jacket for Lily to sleep on.

“Because you promised.”

Your voice had been a whisper, choking on tears, and he had cupped your face in his hands. He wiped away any sign of sadness with his thumbs and pressed a blistering kiss against your lips.

“Because I promised.”

He’d brought you to the palace, telling you it was the safest place to be. You sit on some steps as you watch the princess lean over the Avenger named Vision. Wanda stands nearby, watching the battle going on below.

“What happens if they breach the city?”

Wanda turns to you, eyes lined with the fire red of her powers.

“They won’t.”

She turns her gaze away, resting on Vision for a moment before looking out to the horizon again. You glance at each other as the trees beyond the barrier give way, horrible wheel-like machines rising from the ground. She makes eye contact with you then looks wistfully to Vision. She’s gone in a flash of red energy. You turn back to the window to see the machines lifted into the air and thrown on their sides.

“With her gone, they will come for him. You need to be somewhere safer.”

The princess, brow shiny with sweat as she looks at a visual of the stone in Vision’s head intensely, pauses for a microsecond to look at you. You need no further convincing. You lift Lily to your chest and hurry down the steps to the lower level of the lab. The sound of steel doors shutting behind you causes you to flinch. You set Lily down, looking for a window. There’s a small one to the side of a desk. It’s a less direct view of the battle, but it’s enough for you to see the bulk of the fighting. You see more flashes of red energy and lightning sparking across the field. With Thor and Wanda, they have a greater chance.

 _Good_.

It’s ten minutes, but it feels like a lifetime when you hear the grunt of conflict above you. There’s glass shattering and the blast of weapons, the princess’s voice yelling to soldiers. There’s a shaking crash and glass rains down the window you’re looking out of, bodies tumbling after it. You catch the flash of Vision’s cape as he crashes to the trees below. There’s figures running into the forest, more lightning crackling under the canopy mixing with the files of red energy to create an eerie glow. The figures are too small from your vantage point to discern identities. You know one of them is Bucky. You know he’s going to fight like the good soldier he is, but God help you, you want him to be a coward just this once. You want him to turn tail and run to you so you can live the dream life wherever.

“Momma?”

Lily’s voice tears you away from the battle. She saw Vision’s body too. Her eyes are wide, seeming to take up more of her face than usual. You go to her and kneel to her level.

“Momma, what’s happ’nin?”

“I’m not-there’s fighting outside and-“

“Is Bucky hurt?”

You don’t know what to tell her. You don’t want to lie, because it’s the worst thing you feel you could do at this moment. To tell her the truth, the fact you don’t know, and you are afraid her question has the answer of “Yes.” In the end, you just hug her.

“It’s going to be alright.”

It’s not quite a lie. Things could very well be alright, but you can’t guarantee it for her. It kills you. When you turn back to the window, a cloud of yellow light is rising of the treetops. You’re not sure if you see the cloud of yellow light or the flash of lightning descending into the treetops first. The burst causes you to shield your eyes and for a moment, things stand still as you see Thor descend under the canopy. There are soldiers gathered at the tree edge, ready to launch forward for another round of fighting. It’s instantaneous. They’re standing one moment, and the next, dust blowing in the wind. You blink. What power could reduce men to ashes, swirling in a breeze that just a moment ago would have hit their faces? You’re too stunned to ask more questions. Something pulls you, whispers into your ear, and makes you turn to leave. Lily’s doll lays on the floor, dropped unceremoniously. Lily is…is where? You look around the room, finding no sign of her.

“Lily?”

No response.

“Lil? Baby, this isn’t funny. You need to show momma where you are.”

No answer. You scan the room closely. Your eyes fall on the stairs, halfway up. There’s something there. As you move towards it, you see it’s ash, spread across three different steps. You kneel, touch a finger to it, then press your hand into the smallest of the piles. The whisper of her name on your tongue dies before it can fall over the silent room. Everything is too quiet. Too still. In this crushing silence, there’s no respite. The doors to the upper level are still locked. You’re trapped here. Here with her. With what remains of her. You take her doll from the floor, cradling it delicately. You wipe the doll’s hair from her soft face, look into its unseeing eyes. You tremble. There’s nothing to do but wait.

You’ve been on the steps for hours. The sun has gone down. There are muffled voices above you, but there’s no will within you to call out to them. When the doors finally retract and steps echo down the stairs, you find you have no will to even look at whoever finds you. The lights blink on. A gasp from above you, a whisper of your name, and more rapid steps.

_Don’t step on her._

_In her._

_On her._

Your hands tighten around the doll in your grasp. The grind of ash against a stair echoes in your ears. A pause follows and then, softly, your name falls from his lips again. You don’t want him, not now, not at this moment. He isn’t the comforting hand you want to reach out for you now.

“Where is he?”

Steve doesn’t answer immediately.

“Steve, please, where-“

The moment it dawns on you, you think you’re going to vomit. Not him. Not Lily. Both of them. Not like this.

“I’m going to be sick.”

Steve helps lift you to your feet and takes you out to the viewing terrace. When the air hits your face you deeply breathe for the first time since the battle began. You fall to your knees, Lily’s doll hanging limply in your hand. You look at the sky and wonder how the sun can shine so brightly on such a dark day. You curse its warmth against your skin, and its shine onto the devastation below. Ash clouds the ground below, rising in the wind every few moments. You think, surely, you’ll be sick now. In the midst of all this crisis, you feel the numbness from your torture knocking at the door. It wants to take the reins, to commandeer you in its grand vision of stone heartedness and cold-shouldered resolve. When Steve rests a hand on your shoulder, you can’t force yourself to look at him.

“Take me home.”

“I don’t-“

“Take me home, Steve.”

The ride is silent. You wonder if silence will be the state of your life now. Steve is more than reluctant to leave you in the house by yourself.

“I’ll come by later to check-in.”

“No.”

“Please, don’t isolate yourself.”

You pause before speaking.

“Send Nat.”

You let the couch swallow you as the sound of gravel against tires fades into the distance. It carries you to sleep. It feels as if you blink and suddenly Natasha is in your kitchen. She’s made the pair of you bologna sandwiches. You tear off bite-size pieces and chew without tasting.

“You shouldn’t be out here by yourself.”

When you don’t respond, she continues.

“We’re all going to the compound in New York. It’s the best place to regroup and plan. Steve wants to bring you with us, so you’re not left behind.”

To bring you. Like a suitcase.

“I’m asking you. Gather some things and be ready in the morning. I’ll come to get you and find you a room at the compound away from Steve. Anything you need, you can come to me.”

You look at the house. There are toys everywhere. One of Bucky’s hoodies on the back of the couch. Memories in every floorboard.

“Tomorrow morning?”

Natasha nods at you.

“I’ll be ready.”

***

Natasha is true to her word. You fly out on a quinjet without Steve. Your room is a mother-in-law suite. Your own kitchenette, own laundry facilities, and a door that manually locks outside Friday’s system. In the process of packing, you’d ventured into Lily’s room. You put away toys, folded her clothes and placed them back in their respective drawers. You knelt at the dream castle for her dolls and smiled at the treasure chest hidden away under a doll-sized blanket. Your breath had caught when you opened it. Bucky’s other dog tag, chain folded neatly into the bottom. You take it with you, tuck it into a pocket of your bag, and forget it until it’s time to unpack. You take your camera as well. The room you’re in has one bedroom, somewhat small, but cozy rather than compact. Natasha presents you with options for décor. Blue becomes the overarching theme. You leave everything behind; save for a few photos you develop off the camera film. One is of Bucky and Lily, sitting on the dock together. Lily is screaming with laughter, a smile stretching from ear to ear. Bucky holds her gently, a half-smile on his lips, and love in his eyes. You sniffle a bit as you set it on the dresser. You haven’t cried. You know the team is actively working on a solution.

_This is temporary._

You stay in the room as much as you can, choosing to explore when you know Steve is away. Sometimes you’ll eat in the main kitchen with Natasha, but it’s a challenge to act as though you’re happy to have company. You count the days without your family. After three, a new person arrives. Carol, another super being, with vengeance in her eyes. She jets off, searching for Tony Stark in the blackness of space. After fourteen, you ask Natasha about the plan to reverse the dusting. It’s the common term for the loss. The dusting. The team sometimes calls it the snap. You don’t want to know why. You keep your distance from the remainder of the team. You don’t want to look at the casualty count as it keeps rising. Natasha tells you Thanos, the duster, the snapper, wanted to eliminate half of the life in the galaxy. According to the numbers, he did just that. You can’t turn on the tv. Every channel is full of news. The dusted, the dead from the accidents resulting from the dusting, and the casualties from the resulting chaos. NYC declared martial law after a week. Day twenty, Carol returns with Rocket’s ship. You watch from within the compound as Carol’s glowing form descends to the lawn. Tony Stark staggers off into the arms of Pepper. Nebula and Rocket are the only Guardians who remain. Spider-Man revealed to you now to be only a 17-year old child is lost to the dust. Anger fills Tony Stark’s heart when confronted with the reality of their failure. It’s Carol’s idea to go find Thanos and force him to reverse the act. They set off three days after Tony returns, taking everyone but Tony with them. He’s too weak from drifting in space to do much and when you come across him in the kitchen while they’re gone, he barely notices you.

“You’re Barnes’ wife.”

You nod.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

The words are devoid of sentiment. You know what Bucky had done, had been forced to do, to Tony’s parents. You know he’s why the rift in the team happened. The ship returns without ceremony. When they come down the ramp, you wait outside. You see Natasha first, her downcast eyes, and her stooped shoulders. Steve follows behind. You’ve never seen his expression so dark. He doesn’t spare you a second look as he stomps his way into the compound. Natasha stops for a moment.

“I’m sorry.”

It’s the only thing she can say. You watch the rest leave the ship. You find yourself on the fringes of a gathering at the kitchen table. Steve is rigid with anger. Tony sits opposite him with the same demeanor. It takes only a couple of hours for Carol to leave, a jet of light leaving a streak into the sky. The others disperse within the next day, Rocket and Nebula to manage space with Carol. Tony and Pepper are gone shortly after. The only ones to stay are Steve and Natasha. The three of you sit in silence for a few moments before you speak.

“There’s nothing we can do?”

Steve snorts derisively.

“Don’t you think if there’s something we could do we’d already have done it?”

“Rogers-“

“Shut it, Nat.”

You and Natasha share a glance. Unease settles into your stomach. You return to your room and accept reality. Your family is dead.


	11. Chapter 11

28 Days.

Trying to face reality is too exhausting, too crushing, to bear. You let yourself be called to the comfort of closed curtains and heavy covers. Not even Natasha can draw you out.

31 days.

You eat a full meal. If a can of Chef Boyardee warmed on the stove counts as a full meal.

36 days.

There’s a knock on your door, too hard to be Natasha. When you check the camera, Steve’s face stares back at you. You don’t answer.

41 days.

47 days.

52 days.

57 days.

On day 60, you’ve dehydrated yourself with tears. Food tastes of little more than dirt. Steve’s tittering outside your door sets your teeth on edge.

“Why are you here?”

You wrench the door open and force yourself to look him in the eyes.

“I’m just checking up on you.”

“I don’t need you to _check up on me_.”

“Look, you don’t have anyone to look after you now and-“

“I can look after myself!”

“What, like before?”

“Before?”

“In your tiny apartment, sleeping on the couch so Lily can have the bedroom? Scraping together money at temp jobs? Yeah, what a living. Buck told me to take care of you should anything happen, and I intend to, damn it!”

You feel your face curl up into a snarl.

“I didn’t need you then, I don’t need you now. I’ve lost everything and it’s because of _you_. You weren’t enough to stop it.”

Steve’s eyes widen, a flash of a general’s face and voice in his ears.

_I asked for an army and all I got was you._

Anger takes the place of shock and the grief in his chest finds a target in you. His palm makes a loud cracking sound across your cheek. The force is enough to knock you almost completely over. When you turn back to look up at him, he’s staring at his hand as if it doesn’t belong to him. He’s opening his mouth to speak, but there’s nothing he can say to stop you from pushing past him into your room. You double-bolt the door and sink to the floor, back resting against the wood. The lock is symbolic in function. You know he could bust through it should he choose to and do whatever else he’d like. His face is frozen at the surface of your thoughts. It twitches and distorts to mix with a similar memory of violence. Rumlow’s voice comes from his mouth.

_Like velvet._

You scramble to the sink and vomit.

***

You decide sometime in the night to leave. You have one of Bucky’s jackets, roomy enough to be comfortable without swallowing you, to keep out the cold. His spare dog tag is tucked under your shirt, the cold spreading goosebumps across the sensitive skin of your chest. It’s early, before five when you slip into the garage. You’ve left every nonessential behind. The only personal item in your makeshift go-bag is your camera. You admire a sleek two-door, asking FRIDAY for the key, and instruct her to restrict access to the departure footage to Natasha. You long for New York, but it’s too close. You need somewhere out of the way, somewhere decimated by the dusting. A small town, or no town at all. Though it’s easier to get lost in the bustle of a city. You start driving without a plan. Wreckage litters the side of the highways as you move South. There’s still cars out, but definitely not as many as there should be. You’ve gone for two hours when you see the skyline of the city. Smoke rises from multiple places and helicopters are circling here and there. The bridges are blocked with tanks. You pull over at a rest stop gas station with a flickering “Open” sign. You buy one of those “burner phones” Bucky said they used on missions. There’s an ATM out front. When you open your wallet, you’re surprised to see Bucky’s blue card staring up at you. You run a finger over the raised letters of his name. He doesn’t need the money anymore, a voice rationalizes. You know the pin, it whispers, as you hold it towards the machine with shaking hands. It will only let you withdraw five hundred at a time. There's plenty more in the account. Cards can be tracked. You continue along the highway, exiting when you see a sign for the bank on the card. When you walk in, the people look surprised.

“I need to close out an account.”

The whole process takes a half-hour. Guilt racks through your body as you sign paper after paper. In the aftermath of the dusting, spouses are given their partner’s assets provided they can prove the death. The team had been accumulating a database of the missing and dead. Bucky’s name is one of the first on it. The clerk turns a little pink when she sees the name and apologizes for your loss. You don’t acknowledge it. She doles the money out in hundreds and puts it all into an envelope for you. You run your thumb over the cash and thank her. When you walk back outside, there’s a drone buzzing overhead. It’s focused on the bank. You don’t need to guess where it came from. It buzzes closer as you get into the car and speed off. New wheels, you think and began scanning the roads for intact vehicles. Hopefully, no one’s bothered to come out and collect keys. You watch the drone disappear in the rearview. When you’re convinced it’s not following you, you pull over at the next car. It’s a grey [Jeep](https://www.faricy.com/wmp/new/2016-jeep-wrangler-colorado-springs-co/) with the passenger door ajar. When you peer in, the keys are dangling from the ignition. You send a thank you to whoever might be listening. It’s a two-door, but there’s enough space for you to lay down into the passenger seat if you’d like. You toss your bag into the passenger floorboard and head off. You follow I-84 until it hits Highway 209. You follow it until it ends in a town called Millersburg along the banks of a river. It’s a ghost town, with the only people in sight coming in and out of the town hall. There’s a single McDonald’s along the edge of the town. The sign is lit so you pull through. You get a happy meal, something small because the idea of eating makes you feel queasy. You eat slowly, leaning your seat back and closing your eyes for a few moments. When you open them again, the clock above the radio says it’s been two hours since you pulled into the parking lot. The clock reads 12:30. You head off again, following the highways along the river until you find a bridge across and can set off west. You drive until the sky turns black and city lights loom into view. Welcome to Knoxville, a sign exclaims at you, and you wearily look the clock. Almost 10. It doesn’t feel like the right place to stop. Just for the night then, you think, exiting to find somewhere to stay. The city isn’t as dead as the small towns you’ve been passing through. You could stop at a hotel, but you know you should save money. You find an abandoned rest stop and park between two semis. You keel over into the passenger seat, taking your arms out of the sleeves of Bucky’s jacket to make a pseudo-blanket. You’ll have to get a real blanket and maybe a pillow, you think, as you drift off.

***

You’re woken by sunlight on your face. You blink a couple of times and squint at the brightness. Your stomach is growling, and you need to pee. You rub your eyes and start the Jeep. It dings at you. Low fuel. You set your sights on a gas station and Wendy’s combo-building, munching on chicken nuggets as you fill the tank. They taste like nothing. You need a destination. You start driving again until you reach an open Walmart. You pick up a memory foam pillow, a small blanket, and a small cooler. Crackers, some Kraft singles, bologna, and a large box of granola bars are your choices of food for the next stretch of road. You head north, driving until your eyelids begin to droop. You’re somewhere in Iowa or Nebraska when you pull off into a rest stop. The pillow and blanket help you to sleep better and when you wake, you actually feel a little rested. You change direction now, heading west until mountains come into view. The Rockies, you think, as it dawns on you just how far from the compound you’ve gone. Mountains are rugged, isolated.

 _Perfect_.

You rest for a couple of hours in the middle before you come to the foot of the mountains. You’re in Montana, coming up on the town of Helena. It’s the capital, but you’d never know rolling in. The welcome sign says the population was a little over thirty thousand, and though you see people walking around, you know it’s significantly less inhabited than it should be. You spot another Walmart with a convenience store off to one side. Locals would know where to find a place to stay. The man at the counter has a heavy beard and mustache, highlighted with white and grey hairs. He’s small, hunched over, but his eyes shine up at you with a friendly air.

“Hi, um, this might be an odd question, but I’m looking for somewhere to stay and-“

“Plenty of abandoned houses out ‘long the edge of town. E’rybody’s moved into the city since the disappearance. Cabins up on the hills if yer wanting a lot o’ privacy. Walmart’s the only one in these parts still up’n’runnin’. Lotsa wide spots in the road people’ve left behind. Take yer pick of the litter, girly. We respec’ squatters here.”

You give him a nod and a forced smile before heading off again. The man’s word rings true. Where the suburban developments surrounding the city begin, there are decidedly fewer signs of civilization. You keep moving, going off the main road to follow the dirt up towards the mountains. You come across a small cabin down a couple of side roads. There’s a dilapidated mailbox leaning out front, ready to fall over at a soft breeze. You can tell the cabin has been abandoned long before the dusting. The windows are broken, the door hanging off the hinges. The screened-in porch has multiple tears in the screens, trash is strewn across both it and the yard. It’s a project, certainly, but you’ve got nothing better to do. You park and begin to explore. You maneuver around the broken screen door and take note of how many tears are on the screens. Bears live in the mountains a small voice reminds you as you run a hand along one of the rips. Everything inside is small but livable. There’s a bathroom, disgusting in both look and smell.

Everything else is within two rooms, including a kitchen. There’s a gas stop stove, farmer’s sink, and grey counters which you suspect will be white once cleaned. The entire place smells, but underneath there’s pine and cedar. Broken photos hang on the walls. They’re mostly of trees or other natural things, but one is a family. An older man, a young boy with a fish hanging beside his smiling face, and a woman who you assume is the mother of the boy. The glass is splintered, a hole in the middle over the stomach of the boy. When you take the photo off the wall, the hole behind shines with the gold of a bullet. If there had been a gun then, there could be one now. You set to looking for it, finding a lockbox under the kitchen sink. The lock lays to the side, key still stuck in the bottom, and the gun is off to the side. Bullets and some faded documents line the box. You look at the documents. A birth certificate, a death certificate, an ID, and a marriage license. The death certificate reads “Victoria Trescott” and the ID matches. She’s a couple of years older than you. You set the documents on the counter and gingerly pick up the gun. It’s a handgun, safety off, and when you check the magazine, it’s almost full. You put the safety on and set it on the counter as well. The fridge has a lake of water spilling from underneath, semi-frozen. There’s a stone fireplace along the far wall opposite the front door. You know it can help with keeping the place warm, but you need electricity. And plumbing. You continue to add needs to a mental list before going back out to the Jeep. You need to go back to town.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to the commenter on the last chapter whose plot twist idea ended up being accurate.

“I need a plumber and a handyman.”

The old man smiles at you from behind the gas station counter.

“Found a place to settle in, eh? Well, Jimmy’n’Joe’s o’er on fourth is a good place to start.”

You thank him and go searching for fourth street. It’s a garage with a sign for tire service, but it says Jimmy and Joe’s, so you go in. They’re brothers, twins, in their mid-50s at least. They’ve got sleek black hair pulled into a long braid down their backs and matching tattoos on their wrists in the shape of a bird. They look surprised to see you, but smile, nonetheless. You explain the cabin and they raise their eyebrows, looking at one another.

“Sounds like you’re in over your head.”

“It would be best if we could see what we’re working with.”

This stops you. Of course, they’ll need to come out to work. The idea of people knowing where to find you makes your stomach flip. They sense your apprehension and one of their expressions softens.

“It’s hard being on your own. We understand.”

You swallow the lump growing in your throat and lead them to the cabin. They drive a large red truck with their logo emblazoned on the side. You’ve been able to repair the door and screens on the porch yourself, but the glass on the windows and the plumbing are too much.

“You fixed the porch?”

You nod and show them inside. You’ve been staying out next to the fireplace, ignoring the bedroom and using the bathroom outside. You remove your trash bag and duct tape solution and sit on the cot while one of them examines the windows. The other goes to the bathroom. After around twenty minutes, they come to you with solutions.

“The windows are easy fixes. The screens are in good condition so it’s just replacing the panes. Easy enough and low labor amount.”

“Your toilet is functional, but you need water to be turned on. There’s a place in town you can go.”

“Can I pay cash?”

The question causes their foreheads to crinkle.

“You can pay us cash, but the water company, and electric if you want it, will want a check at least.”

Checks require bank accounts and an address. They’re trackable. You sigh and thank them. They tell you they’ll be back later in the day to replace the windowpanes later in the afternoon. You spend the rest of the afternoon out creating easily tracked accounts at the bank, electric company, and gas company. Shaking as you drive back to the cabin, you dial the only number in your phone.

“Hello?”

“I found a place.”

“What happened to you?”

“Steve hit me. I couldn’t be there anymore. Listen, I’m in Montana, but I had to open a bank account and some other stuff. I need you to keep Steve from finding it.”

“That’s not going to be easy. He’s been looking for you.”

“I know. He sent a drone after me.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you.”

It’s good to hear Natasha’s voice. When you get home, the windows are replaced with a note on the door. The brothers only charged you a hundred. You set to doing more cleaning by fireplace-light, scrubbing the counters and clearing the gas top of gunk. You clean the inside of the fridge as well and plug it into the wall so it’s ready when the electricity is turned on. Things feel as if they’re coming together if only piece by piece.

***

You wake the next morning with bile in your mouth. You make it to the sink before vomit expels itself from your mouth. You blink at the sensation, surprised at your body’s disgusting action. Nausea disappears as quickly as it came. You’re even more surprised when your instinct to turn the faucet on is met with water washing the sick down the sink. So, your water works. You poke your head into the bathroom. You’ll clean it properly with the water on and take a shower for the first time in days. Breakfast consists of some canned chicken and crackers, with cleaning fumes for dessert. The skin around your nails is peeling from the bleach by the time you’re done with the whole bathroom. You relish the hot water on your skin and stay in the shower until it’s turned lukewarm. You’d picked up bargain soap which smells of honey at the store. The scent surrounds you and wafts out of the bathroom in billowing clouds as you pat yourself dry. You’d bought a single towel, the softest you could find in the aisle, but it’s still not as soft as the ones you’d had in Wakanda. You pull on leggings and Bucky’s hoodie. You need detergent and a place to wash your clothes. You’re sure there’s a laundromat in time, but you know you need to be as self-reliant as possible. A clothesline, at the least, needs to put out it on the porch. You need more things. Homey things, and necessary for living things. And a job. You pull on your boots and make it to the car just in time for another wave of nausea to make you double over. A water train of bile splashes to the ground at your feet and you lean against the door of the Jeep wearily. You don’t feel feverish and your stomach doesn’t hurt. In fact, minus the vomiting, you feel perfectly fine. Unease tugs at the back of your mind. You’ve only vomited without reason once before. You go to the bathroom mirror and turn to the side, hand resting softly on your stomach. It’s not possible, it can’t be. Panic floods through your system as you begin driving to town. You save the test for last. You pick up a chair, a moon chair as it says on the tag, another towel, and a tub you’ll use for washing clothes. A couple of bowls, cups, and plates with cutlery to match. Clothespins, some fishing line, and then you move on to some more personal touches. Vanilla-scented candles, a journal with a bird on the cover, and a box of Christmas lights. Real food, like eggs and fruit, is a welcome addition to your cart. You stare at the wall of tests, picking up three of various prices. On your way back to the cabin, you pray harder than you ever have before.

It’s only once you’re back to the house you realize you don’t need to pee. You down the entire carton of orange juice you’d bought in the hopes you’ll move the process along. It takes two hours, plus the two minutes for the tests to process. It’s time to process, evaluate, and it dawns on you how long it’s been since your last period. Before the dusting, before the last time, Bucky held you. The memory of your last time with him leaves goosebumps on your skin and brings tears to your eyes. It’s the first time you’ve remembered anything about before. After you had thought only of the absence. When the tests are done, you stare at them as they lay in the sink. It feels a bit like they’re mocking you. Three pluses stare back at you as more tears make their way down your cheeks.

It’s not possible.

As the weight of reality begins to crush you, there’s no escape from the tightening in your chest. Breaths come fast and shallow as you look at your empty eyes in the mirror. This is not someone who can take care of a child. Not again. Anger takes the place of fear and your hands grip the bathroom counter like a vise. As if your hold is what tethers you to the world. You’ve been here before, in this position. The counter in front of you shifts to the marble of the kitchen in the house in Wakanda. Your decision to step into a life with Bucky. A cry of anguish, of grief, of anger at the cosmic forces which pushed you to this moment, echoes throughout the empty cabin. You curl in on yourself until the floor of the bathroom is the only thing touching you. You stay like this, holding your stomach until sleep rescues you from the wreckage of your emotions.

You wake up in the late afternoon.

_A doctor. A baby needs a doctor._

Shakily, you stand and make your way out to the Jeep. There’s a hospital in town. You stumble through the fog to ask the directory where to find an OBGYN. On the third floor, the woman chirps at you.

“I need to make an appointment,” you say softly to the nurse at the third-floor counter. She tells you there’s an opening today at 5:30. The clock behind her reads 4:45. You slump into a chair and wait. You stare at the tv across the waiting room, some news channel updating about New York being handed over to a provisional government under the direction of the National Guard.

“Eleven weeks. Is there a father in the picture?”

You shake your head numbly.

“He was…he’s gone.”

The doctor tuts softly. He’s a balding man with grey, nearly white, hair.

“Are you taking any vitamins?”

“I just found out today. I made the appointment before doing anything else.”

“Uh-huh.”

He’s disinterested, glancing at his watch.

“It’s my second time. I know what to do.”

“And where is _that_ child?”

_That child_.

“Gone. Like her father.”

The doctor’s eyebrows raise, and realization ghosts his face. He spends the rest of the appointment being excessively kind. It makes your teeth hurt. You stop by the store again and pick up some vitamins. You need a real bed. There’s a mall somewhere in town, but you’re not sure where. They’re bound to have a furniture store. While you’re at Walmart, you pick up a paper application from the customer service desk and proper bedding. Your mall trip yields a mattress and box spring, plus two applications. It all barely fits in the Jeep, but with some elbow grease, you’re able to squeeze it in. Unloading it is more of a trial, but you get it done, nonetheless. You set everything up in front of the fireplace. The bedroom is of no interest to you. It’s not a room you want to sleep in alone. Besides, you reason, the fireplace will keep you warmer than the heating vents in there. You collapse down onto the mattress and wonder how you’d slept on the cot at all.

Dinner, another shower, and a quarter of a book you’d bought later, you tuck in for the night. You wake the next morning to a missed call. An interview for the Walmart position. It’s a formality, you find out upon arrival, and sign paperwork to start Monday. The position comes with healthcare, you’re surprised and pleased to find out.

So, your routine begins. Work a 4th shift, 10 hours, Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. Up at 9 to be in by 11. Take your vitamin, put on sneakers and your vest, have a quick breakfast of oatmeal and a banana. Pack a lunch. Take a lunch break around 3. Come home, go to sleep.

It’s easy, enjoyable even, and the people you work with are kind. You stock shelves, but after a couple of weeks, they train you to be a cashier. You’re on your feet more often than you’d like, but the pay is enough to leave you with leftover when bills come. The worry of being tracked by Steve begins to fade. What could he do to make you leave sans forcibly taking you? People would notice now. The man in the gas station, Paul as he’s asked you to call him though you insist on saying “Mr. Haversham”, would know something was amiss if you didn’t stop in to say hello. He’s the first person you tell about your baby. When you come in the next morning, he presents you with a knitted hat in a soft yellow.

“The wife wan’ed me t’ give this t’ ya. Been a while since we seen any kiddos ‘round here. You lemme know if you need somethin’ else for the lil’ squirt. The wife’s got ‘er needles all in a fit now.”

You bite your lip to keep from crying. You hold it gingerly as he smiles up at you. It rests on the fireplace mantle as a reminder you aren’t alone.

***

The New York skies are grey. Everything’s been grey and bleak since you left. Disappeared into thin air. Steve watches Nat furiously typing at a large monitor though the camera. Your face flashes across the screen, ID picked up at a bank and electric company in Montana. Natasha scrubs you from the compound system, locking the information away with only her access code available as the key. Steve breathes hard, thumbnail being bitten to the nub in his mouth. First, you run and then Natasha helps cover your tracks? He leaves the screen behind and catches Nat as she comes out of the monitor room.

“What are you up to?”

Never caught off guard, she plays it off as updating the missing list. Steve feels more anger blooming in his chest.

 _Lies_.

Life is full of them since the snap. He’s sick of them, but he lets himself simmer rather than revealing what he knows. When Nat’s out of sight, he locks himself in with the computer. Her password, recorded on the camera, lets him open the treasure trove of information. You switched cars after Jersey, he knew this, but now he knows it’s a Jeep. You’re living in Helena, secured away on the mountainside, with a job at the local Walmart. A payment to a doctor’s office catches his eye. An OBGYN.

A baby.

Bucky’s baby.

And you.

Alone in the mountains.

He can’t allow it.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey kids! Life has finally relaxed and I can update again.

It’s a boy. You carry the polaroid in your apron pocket at work and treat yourself to a pair of microfiber sneakers to cushion your feet. When you show the ultrasound to Mr. Haversham, his face breaks into a smile you’re sure will split his skin. When you come in for a juice the next day he presents you with another baby hat, a soft blue this time, and a pair of booties to match.

“You got Mary all in a tizzy, girly. She been pesterin’ me with questions about the lil’ squirt.”

You thank him for the kindness and put the set next to the yellow hat on your mantle. You spend your breaks looking at the cribs and changing tables and strollers. This is different from your pregnancy with Lily. You had combed flea markets, garage sales, antique stores, for the bare essentials. Now, with Bucky’s money in your pocket, you can spare no expense. You settle on a deep brown set which includes a crib which converts to a toddler bed and a combination dresser-changing table. You paint the bedroom walls white and move in the baby furniture. You move your bed in as well, making space tight but more functional. A yellow comforter for both beds with soft white chiffon-like curtains on the window. You’re picking up something new at least once a week. You show pictures of the baby room to Mr. Haversham, who gives you his gap-filled smile each time. He presents you with onesies, sewn by Mary, in pastel patterns. 20 weeks turns to 25, turns to 30. You fall asleep at night with your hand over your stomach, feeling the little pushes against your palm. Worry melts to an emotion unknown.

***

Steve watches you struggle to pick up a bag of pasta off the floor of the aisle. His nose wrinkles slightly at the sight of your rounded torso. Bucky’s child, growing in you, in the squalor of the shack you’re living in on the mountainside. He’s been in town a week and you’ve yet to notice him. Not that he’s been going out of his way to get noticed. It’s been mostly surveillance from the truck, the occasional following at a distance, or sitting outside your cabin at night. When you finally stand again, you rest your hand on your stomach and smile warmly to yourself. A jealous gremlin in the back of his mind pokes its head out and whispers how it could have been his baby. You could have been his wife, had his child, children if he’d wanted, but instead, you gave yourself to Bucky. Steve wonders if you will name the baby after its father. He doesn’t know if it’s a boy or girl, but he shrugs it off. He’ll know soon enough.

***

The hair on the back of your neck bristles as you tear yourself away from the kick against your hand. When you look up, no one is around, but there’s still a creeping sensation up your spine. You shudder and go back to stocking the shelf. When your shift ends, the creeping sensation returns as you look at your Jeep from across the parking lot. You clutch your keys, splaying them between your fingers, and step out into what feels like a barren plane. It’s still light out, the sun staining the sky red and orange, but to you, the lot is darker than midnight. You swear your footsteps are echoing and when you pause to look back, you see the whip of someone back around the corner of the building. You stay frozen, staring down the shadow which disappeared before it appears again. A man, ball cap pulled low over his face, jeans, and a bulky jacket. He doesn’t move and neither do you. He raises his head to look at you fully. He’s too far away for you to make out the features of his face. You see the outline of a beard, but little else. You begin to back towards the Jeep, refusing to turn away. He withdraws around the building corner again and you book it, not stopping until you’ve locked the car doors twice. You hold your stomach, nausea crawling up your throat.

You visit an animal shelter in town the next day.

“I’m looking for a guard dog.”

The lady behind the counter gives you a bored look.

“Big or small?”

“Um, medium, I guess?”

“Trained?”

“That would be nice.”

“Alright follow me.”

She leads you to the kennels and gestures broadly.

“All of these are house trained and answer to basic commands, y’know, sit and stay and all that. Lemme know if you find someone you like.”

The first kennel is a stout mix of some kind with a smashed face. Its paper says “Sparkles.” She wheezes at you and gives your hand a sloppy lick which leaves her tongue hanging from the side of her mouth. It’s endearing, but you continue walking. The second kennel is a fluffball of fur which yips at your heel as you pass. Definitely not. The third is a bag of wrinkles, snoring softly near the kennel door. When you come to the last kennel, the dog sits patiently while you read its paper. A male border collie mix, unnamed, trained in basic commands and fixed. You kneel next to the kennel. The dog snuffles at your hand and rests its nose in your palm.

“Found him abandoned in a park.”

You jump at the voice, turning to see the front desk lady.

“Good dog, bad circumstances. You want to spend some time outside with him?”

You nod, stroking the dog’s nose through the kennel. The lady brings out a leash and leads the pair of you out into a grassy area behind the shelter. She brings out a ball as well and you toss the ball for a few minutes.

“We’ve been waiving adoption fees since everyone disappeared. We can put a chip in him for thirty dollars if you like.”

The dog stops next to your feet and you kneel again. It noses your stomach, snuffling along the hem of your shirt.

“Yeah, that…let’s do that.”

You walk out forty minutes later with a leash in hand.

“What are you gonna name him?”

You pause and look down at the dog. Its eyes are a soft blue and if you squint, Bucky’s eyes flash over them.

“Damian.”

***

The dog is big enough to cause a problem. You’re smart to get it, Steve thinks as you load the dog into the passenger seat of your Jeep. He grunts out an exasperated sigh before putting the car into drive and following you back to the shack. He waits until its dark to pull up closer to the cabin. He knows it’s not time to take you home yet, but he can’t resist getting closer to the house. In his haste, sticks crack under his feet and barking erupts from the house. When you come out onto the porch, you’ve got a knife in one hand and the dog’s collar in the other. He peels out of the driveway, throwing gravel every which way and cursing violently.

You watch the car disappear into the night and only when the brake lights have completely vanished do you drop the knife from your shaking hand. Damian whines next to you and you release your death grip on his collar. You know who was in the car, who had been watching you in the parking lot a few days before. You throw a change of clothes into a backpack with the baby clothes off the mantle. You load Damian into the backseat of the Jeep and put the backpack in the passenger seat with a pillow and blanket. You run your hand over the baby furniture and squeeze your eyes shut, tears flowing freely as you go to find matches in the kitchen. If Steve finds something in the house then he could follow you. You light a match and fling it onto your bed, then another onto the baby bed, and empty the box as you back out. The last thing you grab is your camera, an impulse taking over as you stuff it into its carrier bag. Damian barks from the Jeep, racing from one side of the car to the other. When you get in the driver’s seat, the flames are reaching the front porch in your rearview. When you pull into the dealership, it’s thirty minutes to close. You tell them to take the Jeep and give you something you can get for its value. The man stares at you.

“Ma’am we’re closing soon, we don’t have time for a test drive or a credit check or-“

“I want to give you the Jeep, trade it for something of lesser value.”

Desperation cracks your voice and the man’s expression softens.

“Let me talk to our floor manager and see if there’s something we can do.”

It takes him twenty minutes to return. You wring your hands the whole time, petting Damian absent-mindedly. He senses your energy and places his head on your thigh, licking your palm gently. You murmur “good boy”s to him and when the man returns, Damian sits at attention.

“We have something we think can work for you.”

It’s a Camry, deep blue, and the man tells you he can give it to you for 2,000 on top of the Jeep trade-in. You write him a check and leave in the new car. Damian sniffs every inch of the car before the pair of your head off. He settles in the backseat, head resting on your pillow. You pull into a gas station before the interstate exit. You withdraw everything from your checking and savings, buying a small change purse and stuffing the roll of bills into it. You toss your phone into the trashcan, buy a grape juice and a tank of gas, and head off onto the interstate. You follow it south until the sun rises. You pull into a rest stop, sleep for a couple of hours, and take Damian out. You thank heaven he’s not skittish in cars. You continue south, following the signs for Interstate 15 through Idaho. Signs begin popping up for Salt Lake City exits. You pull off for another gas fill up and snack stop. It becomes routine, stopping every few hours to stretch, let Damian out, and then keep going. You cross into Nevada, watching Vegas grow on the horizon. You pull out your map book, watching I-15 fade into the Pacific coast. You don’t want to be in California. It’s predictable. You search for a more direct route south. 515 to 11 to 95 sends you over the border in 6 hours. You can find a new map once you reach Mexicali.

***

Steve expected you to run, but not this quickly. You’ve dumped your phone and the dealership wouldn’t give him information on the car you left in. He dumps the truck and calls out a quinjet, using its systems to hack the dealership cameras. From there you weren’t hard to track. He follows overhead as you cross over state lines, following I-15. He tries to think in your shoes. The coast would be appealing. Warm and quiet if you found the right place. You don’t know he’s following you, so there’s no reason to go somewhere off the wall. Yet, he loses you at Vegas. He’s following I-15 for twenty minutes before he realizes you’re not below him. Steve’s fist connects with the passenger seat and a growl rips from his chest. You can’t slip away from him. Not again. Never again.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: blood and description of labor.  
> It's baby time y'all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your patience with my inconsistent updates.

You’ve been driving for God knows how long. You expected more of a hassle at the border, but the border agent had barely looked at your stolen ID before waving you through. The sun has risen and set since then. Hunger and exhaustion are threatening to take over as your eyes beg you to let them close. Your shoulders ache from hunching over the wheel. Kicks to various parts of your abdomen serve as a reminder you need to eat something, if not for yourself, then for him. Damian is spread eagle in the back, tongue lolled out of his mouth. He lets loose the occasional yip, kicking his back leg slightly, and you wish you could sleep so soundly. You’re an hour beyond the border when the pain in your back begins. It’s concentrated in your tailbone and you do your best to breathe through it until you can stop. A rest station in Mexicali gives you a brief reprieve as you fill up on gas. A package of water, a loaf of bread, and a jar of peanut butter become your passenger seat companions. Damian spends his time in the backseat, alternating between sleeping spread eagle and sticking his head against the window. A bag of his food and your backpack fill the small trunk of the two-door you picked up a couple of hours back. You want to feel refreshed, want to come up with a game plan, but you’re still being plagued by this mysterious pain. You do your best to truck on, thankful you saved a spoon from a drive-thru meal a few days ago. You make your way through three peanut butter sandwiches before you feel full. You follow signs for Highway 5 until it merges with a Highway 1. Another stop in a town called Punta Prieta. You buy a pay as you go phone at a convenience store and fill its minutes. Deep breaths as you type in the only familiar number you can think of.

“Romanov.”

“Nat, it’s me.”

A pause.

“Steve is looking for you.”

“He found me. I ran.”

“Have you lost him?”

“I don’t know. I think so, but I’m not going to put any money on it.”

“Steve’s probably screening my calls. Is this a burner?”

“It’s a pay as you go.”

Another pause.

“Are you okay?”

There’s another twinge of pain in your back.

“I think so.”

“The baby?”

“He’s okay. We’re okay.”

“You’re supposed to be seeing a doctor as often as possible at this point.”

“I’ve had a baby before. I’ll find one if I need one.”

“Steve won’t stop.”

“I know.”

“I’m still trying to find a way to get them back.”

It’s your turn to pause. You nibble at some dry skin on your lip.

“Any luck?”

“No.”

Neither of you knows what to say next.

“He’ll be trying to track your location.”

“Okay.”

You snap the phone shut and toss it in the middle console. You take a second to pray Steve wasn’t listening and head off down the highway again.

***

He hadn’t expected you to call Nat, but to cover all angles he’d been tracking her calls. Your voice makes something in his chest ache. You sound tired and he can picture the way you run your hand through your hair when you’re stressed. He wants to smooth it down, rest his hand on your cheek and let you know you’re safe. You don’t feel safe with him looking for you, but at the compound with him is where you belong. His tracking gives him a 50-mile triangle of desert cut down the middle by a single highway. It’s something. He sets his route to match the highway and hopes he can reach you before you slip away again. It’s all he has left to do.

***

You pull off to the side of the road when you just can’t go anymore. Your back pain has been getting worse and worse. You’ve read contractions can present as back pain, but it’s too early. Of course, it’s not, really. You’re in the third trimester, barely, and earlier labors have occurred. You will the possibility out of your head. You pop a couple of Tylenol and lock the doors before leaning your seat back a bit. Damian gives you a soft lick on the arm, resting his head on the crook of your elbow. Sleep is a welcome relief from your pain, and you drift into bliss.

_Hands are on your side, wrapping around your stomach. A soft kiss to your temple. A soft press from inside your belly._

_“He’s kicking to get out.”_

_A low chuckle at your joke._

_“Soon, little man, soon.”_

_You roll over to press your face against your lover’s chest. You inhale the scent of strawberry shampoo. Little feet patter around the edge of your bed. A blonde head of hair pops up, using the comforter as an anchor to climb into the bed and nestle in the middle._

_“This is all I’ve ever wanted,” his voice whispers into your ear as he cradles your little girl. You look up at him with love. A lock of blonde hair falls into his face as he moves to kiss you._

_You recoil, launching yourself out of the bed. Lily disintegrates and he moves through the dust as if it isn’t there. Concern on his face, he reaches for you._

_“What is it?”_

_Your voice comes out a croak as you attempt to yell for help._

_“What’s wrong?”_

_His hand catches your wrist, the bones cracking in his grip. Your hand turns to dust and you watch in horror as the rest of your arm begins to fall away. You look up again to watch as Steve reaches through your rapidly disappearing figure._

_“I tried to save you.”_

_Another voice yells your name. The glint of metal takes your attention as you try to reach for your love. Dark hair falls into his face, tears streaming, and Steve claps him on the shoulder._

_“I tried to save her.”_

You jerk awake with a cry. Damian starts, barking at your sudden noise. Your breath comes in sharp gasps and as you become more alert, you’re suddenly aware of the pain in your back again. It’s spread to your lower abdomen. You shift in your seat slightly and find it’s wet. You press your hand to the seat, raising your hand to the overhead light of the car. It’s a deep red. Damian barks next to you. He sniffs your hand and draws back. You grip the steering wheel. You need a hospital. A searing pain deep in your stomach stops coherent thought for a moment. You could be bleeding out. Your baby…you push away the thought before it can even fully form. You can’t remember the last time you saw a town large enough for a hospital. You look out over the highway, through the desert. No lights in the distance, ahead of you or in the rearview, and your grit your teeth. With shaking hands, you pull the phone from the middle console. Two rings.

“He’s tracking you. This line isn’t safe.”

You swallow, tears springing to your eyes as another round of pain tears through you.

“Something’s wrong.”

“With you?”

“I’m bleeding. Heavily.”

A pause.

“I’ll send him your location.”

“Don’t leave me alone with him at the compound.”

***

When Nat’s voice breaks through the commlink, Steve bites back a venomous response.

“I’m sending you a location…it’s a medical emergency.”

“Why am I in charge of medevac for some local?”

“It’s not some local.”

Steve swears softly.

“She’s bleeding out. Something’s wrong with the baby.”

The location blinks on the console. He’s not far.

“Bring her back safe.”

The line goes dead and he shifts the quinjet to move as fast as he can make it go. It’s 15 minutes before he spots the little car pulled off into the dirt. Your dog barks and growls as he approaches. You shift your head slightly when his figure comes to stand outside the car window. The dog snaps at him when he opens the door and moves to lift you out. You shush it softly, fingers twitching as you attempt to lift your hand. In the overhead car light, he can see you’ve lost your color. Eyelids fluttering every few moments. He lifts you out, your head falling against his chest, and he looks at the seat. Deep red stains the upholstery. He whistles at the dog, who jumps out and follows cautiously.

“Baby.”

Your voice is barely audible.

“Baby hat.”

He looks down at you and you open your eyes fully.

“Baby hat.”

Steve lays you on the floor of the quinjet, injecting you with a sedative. He runs back to the car, taking your backpack from the trunk. He opens it to find a small yellow hat. Baby hat. You’re drifting into the medicated rest when he comes back in. Steve engages the autopilot, maximum speed, en route to the compound. He sends a message to Nat.

_Evac successful. Coming home._

He lifts you again to sit you in one of the seats, covering you in a blanket to give some semblance of comfort. He rests a hand on your arm. In your last moments of consciousness, you turn your head to look at him. A weak whisper leaves your lips.

“Save him first.”

***

You’re awake before the jet reaches the compound. Despite his efforts to stop the pain, you’re in agony. Afraid of the effect on the baby, you refuse his shots of medication. Frustration and fear drive his responses as you grasp his hand. You’re laying on the floor, breathing shallowly, and groaning every few minutes. They’re contractions. Despite your denial, this is happening, Steve tells you. Your mind is a mess of thoughts, none of them fully formed.

_Save him first. Save him first. Save him first._

You don’t know if you’re saying it aloud or not. Steve stares down at you, eyes wide and helpless. Your body knows what motions to go through to carry you through labor. So, by the time your body says push, you’re too weak to will it to stop.

“He’s here.”

A whisper, a plea for help, and Steve runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t know anything about delivering a baby. Your lips move wordlessly and your words from earlier ring his ears.

_Save him first._

He’ll be damned if he loses you. The image of his best friend, falling into dust, flashes across his mind. He can’t lose you too.

“We’re almost there.”

He smooths the sweat-soaked hair plastered to your forehead. In your weakened state, you welcome the touch. He relishes that moment. Your chin turned up slightly, chasing his fingertips as they press, feather-light, across your hairline.

“We’re almost there.”

He repeats it. There’s little else he can do but use it as a mantra of hope for you to pull through this. Your damn dog paces just outside his space. It’s whining, the noise grinding his nerves. The jet is still a half-hour from the compound. The next minutes pass in a blur for Steve. You’re losing consciousness. You use what’s left of your coherence to point. He swallows and positions himself to…to what? To catch?

It's purple, alien, and covered in blood. It doesn’t cry, doesn’t move, and your eyes roll back. You don’t respond when he shakes your shoulders. He’s yelling your name and cradling the...this thing. It doesn’t look like a baby. Whatever it is. It’s held in the crook of his arm.

_Save him first._

Your voice is the only sound in Steve’s head.

_Save him first._

He can’t find your pulse.

_Save him first._

He’s placing the baby next to you.

_Save him first._

He’s pressing on your chest, listening to your ribs crack from the force. Steve blows air into your mouth and continues his compressions. The baby lays forgotten by your side. Autopilot reminds him he needs to takeover to land. Nat’s voice over the coms, asking for your status. He takes the console again, the landing less than regulation, and returns to you. The smallest breaths are rising from your chest. The back of the jet opens and Nat rushes in. She stops short at the scene. Steve cradles you in his arms, stained red with your blood, and looks up at her with wild eyes.

“Help me.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: suicidal ideation, drugs, general depressed reader

The medical suite is white from floor to ceiling. The contrast of blood on the floor is striking. Stark’s bots are at work repairing you. There’s a single one working on the baby, but there have been no signs of life from it since it came out of you. Nat couldn’t watch the carnage, but Steve is a silent statue outside. His expression remains dark as the bots withdraw and they take you to a recovery space. The blood loss took a toll, but you’re strong, and already showing signs of improvement already. You start breathing on your own almost immediately. Steve takes up a permanent post at your bedside. Nat checks in every few hours. You’re six hours post-op when you stir for the first time. Eyes blinking rapidly under the glare of the fluorescents, body sluggish from the pain medication and sedatives, you manage to raise a hand slightly. Steve takes it immediately, but you pull away. You rest it on your stomach, which has already begun to shrink back from its swollen state.

“Where…?”

You trail off, eyes searching the room. Steve didn’t want to be the one to tell you, and he’s not certain you’ll remember the information with the medication fogging your head. You grip his arm.

“Where?”

More urgently this time. Steve can’t bear to watch you experience any more pain.

“He’s...they’re still working on him. I’ll go check in, alright?”

You nod slightly and sink back into the pillows behind you, slipping back into medicated slumber. Steve knows they announced it dead hours ago. Steve’s nose wrinkles slightly at the sight of it, laying in the tiny bed, wrapped in a soft blue blanket. It’s almost right, almost developed, but everything is just slightly off. The eyes too big, hands too small, the head too large for the body. Its skin covered in blotches of purple and red. Nat had been the one to wash away the blood and wrap the blanket around it. She knows you’ll want to see it; knows you’ll need to see to get your closure. Steve dreads your response. He knows you’ll blame him, and he’ll let you because he made a decision. You could have another child, he rationalized, but there was no bringing you back. Steve would’ve sold everything he had, would’ve given Thanos the stones all over again if it meant keeping you alive. You were his only connection to Buck left. Despite Nat's best attempts, Steve knew she could never understand the loss he felt. He didn’t think he could handle another hole in his life. True, his handle on you leaving was…unhinged at the worst. Now you were here at the compound again, safe in the recovery room, and from here he could help you heal. You wouldn’t want his help at first, he knows, but with the right amount of time, you’d come to understand how much the two of you needed one another.

A hand on Steve’s shoulder startles him out of his thoughts. The red of Nat’s hair enters his peripheral vision as he stares blankly down at the creature in the bed.

“She’ll continue asking until someone tells her. Am I doing it or are you?”

Steve takes a deep breath.

“She’ll take it better if it comes from you.”

Nat chews on her lip, thinking carefully about her next words.

“Did you try to help him?”

“She needed my attention.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He sighs and looks at her.

“Would you have?”

“If it’s what she wanted.”

No hesitation. Of course. Nat never hesitated, only executed.

“She wasn’t in a state to make decisions.”

“And so, you made them for her?”

“I did what was necessary.”

“For your happiness or hers?”

He doesn’t answer. He knows his decision benefitted him the most, but eventually, you would forgive him. Eventually, you would understand. He has to repeat it to himself to believe it.

***

Your head is swimming as you wake up. Everything feels too bright, too loud, too much. Your skin tingles from the oversensitivity. Vision still adjusting, you watch a slender figure come into the room, and smile at the head of flaming hair. Nat comes to stand next to you with her expression soft.

“How are you feeling?”

“Ev’rything is v’ry br’it.”

“Yeah, the sedatives are wearing off. You’ll feel a little sensitive until they’re left your system. Are you in any pain?”

You shake your head in what feels like slow motion.

“How long since I b’n here?”

“You’re coming up on ten hours post-op.”

“Post-op.”

You repeat the words as if by saying them they’ll make more sense.

“Post-op.”

Your hand comes to rest on your stomach and notice it’s a smaller size for the first time. The memory of your hand stained with blood, grasping onto Steve in the quinjet, and pushing resurfaces. You gasp softly, looking at Nat.

“Where is he?”

She knows you don’t mean Steve. She presses her lips together and takes your hand in both of yours. In the hallway, Steve tries not to hear your strangled cry as Natasha tells you. Sorrow explodes from your chest in wails and sobs, the grief of your loss compounding with all the suppressed pain you’ve felt since the snap. Steve squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to further block out your cries. Nat leaves about ten minutes later, returning with the thing in the baby bed. Steve peeks in to watch you gingerly take it from her and press a kiss to its head. You hold it to your chest and wail. Natasha stays dutifully and when you’re calm enough to ask, she tells you it was basically stillborn.

“He was fine. He was healthy and fine when I saw the doctor last.”

“These things happen sometimes. There’s not really an explanation.”

You don’t speak for a while.

“Stress can trigger labor.”

Steve winces at your words. He knows the path your thinking is traveling down. He knocks on the room door and lets himself in. Natasha stares at him with frustration. Your expression turns stony. Shakily, you speak.

“I told you to save him first.”

“This isn’t the right time for-“

You cut Nat off. The sedatives have faded enough to make you clearheaded. You grit your teeth, steeling yourself for the words you need to say.

“I think it’s a perfect time.”

Steve says nothing, stoic as ever and perfectly still.

“You’re silent because you have no defense for your actions.”

You’re clutching your child to your chest. You can see the disdain for him on Steve’s face. You turn your son in your arms to make his face visible to Steve.

“Look at him.”

Steve opens his mouth, but whatever argument he has dies in his throat.

“You did this.”

Pain flickers across his expression.

“My family is dead. You couldn’t save my daughter. You couldn’t save my husband. You refused to save my son. Not just my son, Bucky’s son. You failed all of us, but you failed Bucky the most.”

Your words are rife with venom, entire body shaking with rage. Steve steps towards you, hand reaching out. Natasha, bless her, steps between the two of you. No words, just a single look, and he retreats. You burst into sobs again as soon as he’s out of sight.

***

Two days more in the recovery suite and Nat helps you move to the apartment you’d been in after the snap. The same position you were in almost a year ago. Everything changes and everything stays the same.

Four days. You leave your bed to feed Damian and nothing else.

Nine days. Nat finds you collapsed on the kitchen floor, dehydrated, and malnourished.

Fifteen days. You lay in the medical suite again, accompanied by an IV and feeding tube. Refusal to provide care for yourself means the medical team commit you to the suite indefinitely. Rhodey takes a shining to Damian and you know he’d be a better companion to the dog than you ever could.

Nineteen days. They let you return to the apartment on the condition of daily check-ins at the medical suite. You comply for three days.

It’s nearly 3 a.m. when you slip to the medical suite.

“Friday, unlock medical cabinet 224.”

A bottle. A trip into the kitchen for some water. The lawn feels cool on your bare feet. It’s almost nice. The air is cool and goosebumps prickle to life across your arms despite your sweater. Bucky’s tags dangle against your chest underneath your sweater. You know Steve runs the wooded trail by the compound every morning. You take it for a few minutes before steering off to a creek running through the woods. There’s a beaten path through the brush to a small bridge. You dangle your feet down into the water. You can see the sky peeking through the treetops. It’s clear out, the moon a little under halfway waned, and the stars glint. It’s as if they’re winking at you, beckoning with the promise of rest and an end to worry. You take the pills two at a time until they’re gone. Some malicious voice in your rapidly diminishing consciousness whispers a hope Steve is the one to find you. Your last thought is a wonder of how the guilt will affect him. The sun is beginning to rise as you close your eyes.

***

Steve asks Friday if you’re awake every morning. It’s the first thing he does when he opens his eyes. When Friday tells him you left the compound, he launches from the bed. He sends an alert to Natasha.

“Where was she last seen?”

“Compound camera 325A footage-“

“Show me the footage.”

He watches you wander into the woods.

“What was she doing before this?”

“Medical cabinet 224 was accessed at 2:47 a.m.”

“Friday, relay inventory of medical cabinet 2-2-4.”

“Medical cabinet 224 inventory is exclusive to the drug class: narcotic and drug class: benzodiazepine. Clonazepam, Diazepam-“

“Friday. Stop. What was taken from the cabinet?”

“Missing inventory includes one 15-pill bottle of 1 milligram Lorazepam.”

You’ve been out there for a couple of hours. The image of your lifeless body on the floor of the quinjet flashes across his mind. He can’t take it. He’s calling for you, eyes scanning the brush rapidly for any sign of you even before he’s started down the trail. He passes the dirt path without thinking but stops short. A sliver of grey fabric hides behind a tree. The footbridge. He doesn’t bother with the path, scrambling through the crosshatch of shrubs and low hanging branches. Sunlight streams through the trees to shine down on you in a glowing spotlight. You’re splayed across the footbridge, one of your feet dangling down into the water. He’s whispering your name, a prayer to whoever might be listening, and when he touches your neck, the softest pulse answers his plea. The night air has cooled your skin and he wraps you in his jacket as he pulls you off the ground, as if doing so will give you a sudden recovery. Natasha meets you at the entry to the path. Her face pales when she sees you, limbs dangling in his arms. He’s shaking, fear, and anger flooding his system. The medical suite, your new home it seems, is filled with soft murmurs as the team works. Wakandan tech, an extract from some plant, gifted to Steve by the princess gets your heart rate to normal again. The med team purges your system of the medication slowly and he stays the whole time. Hours of watching as you begin to come back to life. His shoulders ache from the tension. Nat flits in and out, standing at his shoulder chewing her lip or sitting against the wall, staring through the window with a grim expression. They move you to the recovery suite when you start to breathe on your own. The extract, whatever it is, works its magic. Steve is nervous because he doesn’t know exactly what it is. With T’challa and the princess snapped, he doesn’t know who to ask about it and decides it’s best to keep his concerns to himself. He knows you won’t want to see him, but he takes up a position in the chair next to the bed anyway.

It’s a waiting game now.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst, I guess? I don't know what qualifies as angst and what qualifies as just sad.  
> TW: unintentional disordered eating, mentions of self-harm, general depression in reader  
> Warning for selfish and creepy Steve. Sorry :/

You’re little more than a corpse with the ability to walk. Dark circles under your eyes, only the minimum number of calories required by the med team, and only a glimmer of recognition when you see him. Steve grits his teeth through his frustration and does what he can to focus on mission work. It’s clerical bullshit, the nerve grinding responses to calls for help from all over, and the delegating always falls to him. The team, stretched thin by the snap, now pulled beyond its breaking point with half the survivors returning to space. Banner disappeared into the Midwest, Clint full AWOL, and Rhodey working with the big wigs in D.C. to put out the domestic fires. It’s him and Nat for the recon, the hostage rescue, the grunt work. There was a time he enjoyed grunt work, enjoyed the time in the field, enjoyed the responsibility of leadership. Now? He’d hand to someone else in a heartbeat. Sam would take it if he were here. Selfless Sam. Sam the soldier. Sam the leader.

Steve leans back in his chair and stares at the drop ceiling tiles. The lamp on Tony’s desk is the only light in the room, throwing deep shadows across the bookshelves.

Tony. Disappeared to the Catskills with Pepper once he’d recovered from being stranded on the Milano. He knew how to delegate these bullshit missions. Nat mentioned Pepper was expecting a baby. What Steve would give for the family they’d had before to come together and celebrate. Before.

Not before the snap. Before the accords, before…when _was_ their last time as a family? The original family. The New York battlers.

God, he’d felt so alive then. Covered in dust and dirt, laughing together over scharma or shwarma? Whatever Tony had wanted. He deserved it then, no matter how much of an ass he acted, because he made the sacrifice. Steve grimaces at the memory of the lab, all of them at each other’s throats, so new to the idea of working together. Steve had been ready to serve again, but after the battle, it became so difficult. The SHIELD missions with the strike team. He grimaces again, his memory bringing Bucky to the surface. Standing in the street, knife in one hand, and confusion in his eyes.

Who the hell is Bucky?

The words had haunted him for months as he recovered from their fight and started the search for his friend.

 _His_ friend.

His brother, more like.

He’d been so lost and there was no time to help him find his way after Zemo’s revenge plan began. Bless the princess for her fast work with him. Only 6 months under and cured of his programming, Steve had expected him to be the same. It was a mistake, which led to tension as the realization Bucky, _his_ Bucky, and the Soldier had come together to create someone somewhat new.

_His Bucky._

Rumlow’s words echo in his ears. The memory of Steve’s blood-covered hands as he beat Rumlow into a purple mess, choking out commentary. How he’d survived Wanda, how he’d survived Steve’s beating; it was all wrapped in Hydra’s need for a replacement for Bucky. Steve had promised Rumlow death and he’d deliver one day.

A soft rap on the office door and a familiar head of red hair pull him out of his self-loathing.

“You look like shit.”

A derisive snort is Steve’s only response. Nat leans against the desk next to him.

“Other people can help you with the weight of the world there, Atlas.”

Another huff and snort.

“She’s spiraling.”

Steve pushes back from the desk and sighs, resting his forehead in his hands.

“I know. I know and she won’t let me in to help.”

Nat knows the can of worms it’ll open if they discuss why you won’t let him in. She can’t blame you. The miracle of a child, of a family to fill the hole left by the snap and Steve took it from you. Nat, ever the unbiased mediator, the go-between for the sides of a war, keeps her opinion on it to herself.

“She blames you.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think she’ll always blame you for the snap.”

“I know.”

“Tell me how to fix it.”

It’s Nat’s turn to laugh at him.

“Time and patience.”

Time. Steve has spent his whole life grappling with time. The time to get well when he was sick before the serum. The time it took to carry out orders during the war. The time spent in the ice. Time feels like a specially designed prison.

“And if I don’t want to wait?”

“It causes more damage to force something to heal than it does to heal naturally.”

Steve looks at her for the first time.

“But it still heals, Nat.”

“An unstable heal is more susceptible to becoming broken again.”

Silence as the two of the look at one another. She’s right, of course, and Steve knows it. But how much time does she mean? And, yes, Steve knows it will be months, but…years? How many? And when you heal, what will your relationship with him look like?

“This isn’t about you. You have to recognize that.”

“How? She blames me.”

“She lost everything.”

“And we didn’t?”

“You’re not listening to me. She lost _everything_. Yes, we as a team, and as a family lost people, but there is still a family here for us. It’s smaller, but it’s still here. And yes, we would do anything to make the team whole again, but we have people to lean on. She has who? Me? You? No amount of me comforting and watching her or you trying to control her changes that. Steve, she is alone in the world and she’s realizing it now because _you_ made your decision in the quinjet.”

There it is. The point of issue.

“And you would have done what?”

“Steve, I-“

“No, Nat, what would you have done? Really? She’s dying, in your hands, and she says to save the baby? Save it when its survival chances are what exactly? Worse than hers!”

He’s standing now, hands moving erratically and one of them runs through his hair.

“I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t lose someone else, Nat. She’s right, I failed Buck at every turn. I didn’t send him home when we brought back the 107th, I didn’t send lead a convoy to find him after he fell, and I spent all that time in the ice while they tortured him. I couldn’t do it again by losing her.”

Nat doesn’t move, composure collected as always, as she speaks.

“Would he blame you for those things?”

Of course not. Bucky was giving until he had nothing to give, and even then, found some way to continue giving. Long New York winters with only Buck to check in on him and help him through the asthma attacks or pneumonia or whatever other illness came knocking on Steve’s door. Leftover food from Mrs. Barnes’ kitchen for all the weeks Steve spent with only crumbs to scrounge together. The training he needed on the battlefield when his fingers struggled with reloads. Everything Buck had, he gave to Steve, and here Steve sat with eyes only for the one thing Bucky had taken for himself. Everything about you felt like a siren call. Unrequited longing. Even Peggy, God bless her, hadn’t made him feel like this.

So, he plays the game and waits. He watches in silent despair as you wither into less than human. He keeps a measured distance, careful to give you just enough space so he doesn’t make you feel stifled or watched. You do little, barely speaking or eating. When you faint in your kitchen from low blood sugar, he stays away, but asks Nat relentless questions about your state. The med team advises you and recommends you no longer live alone. You ignore them. Steve’s frustration grows, but still, he forces himself to stay away.

You’ve been counting the days since your baby’s death. It’s the only constant you have as the days blend and blur together. You’re aware of Natasha’s worrying, Steve’s watchful eyes, and the medical team’s tittering. You’re aware of hunger and weariness. You’re aware of life going on around you.

You don’t go with it. Instead, you retreat into the numbness you used to survive the concrete room and Hydra’s torture. Shutting out the new, you replay memories to create some semblance of comfort as the emptiness in your chest grows. It’s a simple word, empty, but not a simple feeling. Despite its definition, the emptiness inside you is all-consuming. It’s a vine, invasive and choking, continuing to twist its way into every corner and cranny. It takes the place of care and concern for yourself. You go days without showers and pick at any bump on your skin until it scabs over. The scabs are picked at as well until you’re covered in angry raw marks. Dark circles under your eyes stretch down to your cheeks and your cheeks lose their lively color. Skin sallow, nails bitten to nubs, and your voice dusty from lack of use.

It’s been 73 days when you walk out into the woods again. Steve panics, but after Friday tells him you’ve taken nothing with you, he forces himself to remain calm. Despite his want to follow you, he stays at the compound, waiting on one of the benches out front until your figure comes back into view. He again fights with the urge to speak with you, offer comfort or be a punching bag or whatever it is you need. He watches you walk past him, your clothes hanging off your diminishing frame. You look so small, so fragile, and Steve hangs his head. It’s not even a week later you’re back in the med wing with another malnutrition problem. They keep you for three days, having to force you to use a feeding tube after you refuse solid food. The food gives you color, a façade of vitality, but Steve knows better than to hope for the liveliness to keep.

88 days.

94 days.

100 days.

You wake up with the sun poking through a crack in your blinds. The mess of blankets over you are putting off a musky smell. The clothes on you are no better. In fact, _you_ are putting off a musky smell. You roll out of bed and strip both yourself and it. Laundry piled in the corner, wads of hair rolled into tangled knots on the floor of the bathroom, and dust coating the surfaces of the room staring at you. Your stomach growls and you look down at it. Your feet follow your thoughts before you fully process them. A shower, with a deep condition to your hair and a shave to your…everything, ends with you setting the razor down instead of using it on your arm or leg as you had been doing for months. A lotion which smells like oranges and vanilla, with deodorant which has been unopened for ages, leaves you feeling…refreshed? Dare you say it? You pull your bedding and laundry out into the hallway and living room, sorting it into piles. It’s definitely a process, keeping the piles going as you dust and vacuum and wipe down everything in sight. Your fridge is basically empty, so it’s the community kitchen for food. It’s small, fried eggs and toast with a couple of strips of turkey bacon. Natasha stops dead when she sees you pouring yourself a cup of coffee. You peruse the creamer selection before pulling out a hazelnut one with “STEVE” written across it in permanent marker. Fuck Steve and his creamer hoarding. You take the creamer back to the room with you, along with one of the large containers of coffee grounds in one of the cabinets. By the time you’re done with the laundry and the cleaning, it’s mid-afternoon and you collapse onto the couch.

Steve could fly, as Nat tells him you were cooking something in the kitchen and doing laundry. When he walks by your quarters, the clear scent of disinfectant wafts out. He spots you again around dinner, putting pasta into a pot and some vegetables in a pan. You've washed your hair and it shines under the lights. 

The waiting game could end soon.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a mostly positive break for reader. It's not fluff, but I did my best y'all.

139 days.

Steve begins driving to the city to take part in therapy sessions at an advocacy center. Like AA, but for grief. Gently, Natasha offers the suggestion for you to go to the center too.

“They have a lot of groups and activities, it’s not just therapy.”

You tell her you’ll think about it. The thought of spending a couple of hours with Steve in the small space of a car didn’t sound like something you wanted to endure. It takes you two weeks to think it over. You don’t say anything, just wait by the car the morning he goes. He stops short when he sees you, balking slightly.

“Um, this is a surprise.”

“I’m going to the advocacy center.”

Steve chews his lip for a moment and nods.

“Okay.”

Steve is acutely aware of every movement you make in the next two hours. Your fingers fidget in your lap, tugging at a loose string on your sweater, then at one of the buttons on it. Your knee bounces, every nerve in your body vibrating. Emotions bubble, fear and anger, and panic, as you watch the city skyline grow closer. You haven’t been back in the city in over a year and now you’re returning with Steve. After a true eternity, Steve parks the car outside a faded brick building. He pauses before getting out.

“These people’s stories can be difficult to hear. If it’s too much, you don’t have to stay. You don’t have to come to my group either. I know I’m not someone you’re looking to share with.”

His sincerity surprises you and all you can do is nod. The building smells like a gym floor, but an underlying sweet smell draws you away from Steve towards a room with half a kitchen in it. There are a couple of people there, putting out plates of baked goods. A portly older woman takes a pan of cookies out of the oven and you poke your head in slightly. She sees and smiles, cheeks glowing.

“Hello! I don’t think I’ve seen your face before. Welcome! Welcome!”

She sets the tray to the side and takes off her oven mitts, gripping your hand in a firm shake.

“I’m-,” you start, but she tuts at you.

“Ah, ah, ah! Anonymous for a reason, my dear.”

She wags a finger before turning and going back to the tray of cookies. You blink a couple of times to process the interaction. Steve’s figure comes up behind you and you feel yourself shrink away from him. The older woman beams.

“There he is! I was wondering when you were going to be here. I guess we can’t be truly anonymous with an Avenger in attendance,” she winks at you and you watch Steve squirm slightly at the attention. You hold back a grin. The woman continues fawning over Steve, who bashfully thanks her and takes whatever she hands him.

“Alright, to the tables everyone!”

You press yourself against the wall to avoid the parade of sweets as they go by. They’re carted off to a couple of rooms, each with a circle of roughly ten chairs in the middle. Signs just inside the door give an explanation. Steve sits in the room labeled “Life with Grief.” You feel yourself frown at the sign. It’s unintentional, but you can’t help but dread listening to people lament. You look at the next room. “Families: Learning to Move Forward.” Yikes. The last room is smaller, with fewer chairs. “Motherhood in the After.”

_Motherhood in the after? Who came up with these names?_

It sounds like the title of a book you would never read. You sit nonetheless as other women drift in. One has a stroller with her, and you see a tiny head of dark hair peeking out from under the blanket. Your heart jumps slightly as she settles into her seat, pushing the stroller back and forth slightly. You do your best not to pointedly stare, but your eyes continue to flash to the baby. The woman finally notices and smiles shyly.

“You can come to say hello if you like.”

Her voice is soft but clear, like a birdsong. Her hair is the same dark brown as the baby, hanging in kinky ringlets. Her skin is an olive tone, eyes almost the same brown as her hair. You move to sit next to her, peeking again at the tuft of hair in the stroller. The blanket hiding the baby’s face is yellow, frayed around the corners, and the woman pulls it back slightly. Tiny fists lay curled next to the baby’s face, fringing a light blue pacifier.

“His name is Josiah.”

Josiah stirs and coughs softly, upset at the sudden light on his face. Large brown eyes blink themselves open and your heart flutters. He grips your finger and you realize you’d reached your hand out to smooth his hair. You pull back slowly.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to reach in, I just-“

The woman laughs a little.

“It’s okay, everyone here wants a turn with him.”

She puts one of her hands over yours a squeezes slightly.

“I understand.”

She’s so earnest and kind, you find yourself swallowing a lump which has formed in your throat.

“How many did you lose?”

You wipe your eyes, cheeks flushing with the heat of a blush. You haven’t been so outright emotional in...in how long?

“My daughter, she disappeared in front of me and m-my husband…he was fighting and-and I don’t even know what happened or where-“

It’s too much. You’re sobbing, large hiccups coming from your chest, and when you gain your senses again, there are three other women seated around you. They smile gently, offering sympathetic words, and they begin to share their own stories with you.

One had a family of seven, three kids, and her wife gone in the snap. Another was in the car when the snap happened, coming home from the DMV with her teenager who’d just passed their license test. The crash caused part of her face to break and it droops slightly as she speaks. The last didn’t lose anyone to the dust, but they’d all been on a plane flight to see family. All but her youngest son succumbed to crash injuries. She broke her leg in the crash and it no longer bends at the knee. You wipe stray tears away as they open up to you and one of the women announces they could all use a break. The table in this room is piled high with desserts and cheese. The older woman in the kitchen knew exactly what they’d be needing.

“Now we just need some wine!”

The widow says, the mother of the little boy laughing with her as they each add cheese cubes to their plates. Over the next hour, each gives an update on how they’re doing, things they’re learning. Slowly, Josiah makes his way around the circle, held by each woman with tenderness, and rocked slightly. When the conversation comes to you, the widow, Jen, offers him to you and you hesitate. She pulls back and gives you a look.

“I’m sorry, I just…”

Your hand moves to your stomach instinctively and the realization passes through the women in a sudden wave.

“How long ago?”

“141 days.”

Your answer is automatic, almost robotic, and another wave moves through the group.

“Would you like to tell us about it?”

You pause, looking at Josiah again. He’s more awake now, ruddy cheeks glowing as he makes a face like a smile at you. You reach for him, letting him rest in your lap comfortably, and take a deep breath.

“It was about a month after.”

***

The meetings are a gift. Each week you meet with these women and each of you takes a turn sharing how things are, how they _really_ are. You tell them your story, leaving the problems with Steve to the side, as you don’t want to hurt his reputation with them. Everything else? Fair game. They watch you unfold, watch you bloom, as you divulge the life you’d built with Bucky, the Hydra facility, and everything in between. Each of them opens up too, the group offering the reassurance of their healing being valid, no matter how small. When Allison tells the group her physical therapy has progressed enough to allow her knee to tilt at a 5-degree angle, Jen goes to the bodega down the street and returns with a cheap bottle of champagne. You look forward to each week’s meeting, even beginning to not mind the car ride. You still don’t say anything to Steve, but you no longer flinch or draw away when he shifts in the driver seat.

And he notices. How could he not? He hasn’t seen you this bright since after your wedding. You even hum along to the radio as they drive. You move from the full apartment to be closer to the community facilities, and your room door is usually open. He knows it’s to be closer to Nat and what’s happening with the team, but he stills sees it as a little victory. You lounge in Tony’s office sometimes, working your way through the shelves of books, and even when Steve is at the desk, you stick around.

Knowing Steve is watching you annoys you, sure, but as long as he’s not intruding on you, you can handle the watching. You listen to him answer calls and work through mission files as ambient noise for your reading. Tony’s collection of books is amazing. Mostly classics, you go down the line with fervor. You can work through a book in a day or two, depending on the length, and before you know it, you’ve reached the last shelf. The last book is a biography about Howard Stark, dusty and faded with dogeared pages. You take it down gingerly, flipping through it with care. A piece of paper falls out, almost as faded as the book itself. A child’s drawing of a family. You can only assume it’s Tony’s work, Howard and Maria standing next to him. You know the Winter Soldier killed them on a mission, but outside of that, you’d avoided the details. In fact, Bucky made a point to keep you out of the details.

“Doll, will you do something for me?”

It was shortly before your wedding and you’d been looking over veils. You looked up at him across the kitchen counter, his deadly serious expression causing you to set the magazine aside.

“Of course, anything.”

He’d come around the counter slowly. He was always so careful about respecting your space.

“I don’t want to bring my time on the team home with me. That means keeping files out of the house, but it also means you don’t go looking for files about missions.”

You hadn’t thought much of it at the time. His life as the Winter Soldier wasn’t something you’d wanted to know about. The man behind the Winter Soldier was not the man you knew, the man you loved, and it was a simple answer for you.

“Of course.”

He’d kissed your temple and hugged you to him. There was a need there for a reminder of your love, despite the things he’d done. The things he’d been forced to do. You set the book aside and turn to where Steve sits at Tony’s desk.

“Steve.”

Your voice startles him slightly. It’s the first time he’s heard it directed at him without malice in a long time. There’s a determination in your eyes.

“Steve, I need you to do something for me.”

***

The files are stacked neatly in the conference room. You’d asked specifically for hard copies. Steve is hesitant to leave you as you settle into a seat.

“These missions…Hydra doesn’t care about causalities as long as their target is one of them.”

“I know what they’re capable of.”

It’s a harsh retort, an accusation. He knows you know. Your hunched and gaunt figure on the floor of that cell is something he’ll never be able to scrub from his mind.

“Let…Let me know if you need anything.”

He leaves with his heart screaming for him to turn around. You want to know. He can’t deny you the knowledge. He’s memorized those files, pouring over them for hours and hours as they looked for Buck before Zemo’s revenge. He knows the carnage caused, the list of confirmed kills. The process of prepping him for cryo, the details of what he did, and didn’t remember after being wiped every time. Steve knows what they did to break him. Steve’s seen the news footage they showed him after the crash into the ice. He’s seen the way Buck wept and screamed in anguish, fighting everyone who laid hands on him. Killed one of them. He’d left you the VHS system and tape if you chose to watch it. Nat catches him on his way back from the conference room.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Rogers.”

Steve sighs and flops into the nearest chair.

“You know I couldn’t say no to her.”

“Still doesn’t make it a good idea.”

She keeps a neutral expression, but Steve sees a line on her forehead twitch. It’s a tell she has when she’s worried. Very worried. Steve stays in his chair, eyes trying to droop shut. He wants to be there when you emerge from the wreckage of Buck’s past.

You pour over the files, internalizing every image and word. Steve started with the beginning, his arm, and the breakdown of his psyche. The first file has a photo from his days in the 107th. Hat cocked slightly, uniform perfect, and a slight smirk on his face. You set it to the side, marveling at it for a moment. He looked so young. You see the dashing young man history remembers as the grand sergeant at Captain America’s side, kicking Nazi ass and taking no names. His personnel file for the Army is next, with his date of death listed as the date of the fall from the train. From there, Hydra’s precise detail of the protocols put in place serves as your guide. Conditioning, torture, more conditioning, more torture. It’s Steve supposed death which kills Bucky’s spirit. You take a break after the VHS tape. His cries ring in your ears as you go to the kitchen. Steve is passed out in one of the chairs by the couch, snoring softly. You start a pot of coffee, knowing it’s the only way to get through the rest of the files. You don’t intend to go to sleep before accomplishing the pile of manila folders. You wait for the pot to fill, putting together a plate of snacks, and readying a large mug with Steve’s creamer from the fridge.

“Eating may not be the best idea.”

You jump, the creamer flying from your hand to land on the floor. The lid breaks, creamer spilling out across the floor. You glare up at Steve.

“Dammit! We need to get you a bell.”

Steve stifles a laugh as you huff at him.

“You can clean that since you caused me to spill it.”

You stalk back to the conference room and dive back into the files. Steve is right, it turns out, and the food on your plate looks less and less appealing as you go on. You don’t notice the night going on around you as folders go from the unread stack to being thrown about the table. Photos litter the table too, the confirmed kills and the aftermath. The Soldier painted the room red wherever he went in the beginning. As time goes on, he becomes more precise, calculated. It’s from the conditioning, and you know it’s torture for him, but a part of you is thankful his casualties narrow to his target. You know you’re going to hell for thinking something so awful. You pray for Bucky to forgive you for the thought.

When you emerge from the conference room, you’re clutching the photo of Bucky in his Army uniform. Your eyes and nose are red, tear tracks staining your cheeks. Steve jerks awake at the feeling of your finger poking his shoulder. You’re standing over him, sniffling softly.

“Hi.”

Your voice is soft, gravelly as you speak through your sniffling.

“Can we talk?”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank y'all enough for all the feedback on the last chapter. It was difficult to write, so thanks for your support.

You don’t have much to say, but Steve listens diligently, nonetheless. The last thing he wants to do is push you away right now.

“Was he a good soldier? I know he was your friend, so you put him in your platoon, but was he good?”

Steve smiles a little, recalling how carefully Buck practiced his aim and cleaned his guns.

“Even before they made him into the Soldier, he was the best sniper in the Army. I’d bet my life on him outshooting anyone.”

You chew on this for a moment.

“And after?”

“It took a lot for him to consider coming back into the field. I told him he didn’t have to, but he insisted. Less than a week after Shuri cleared him, he was here training for a mission. It was his way of making up for the things he’d done. He was different, though. I wish you could’ve known him before.”

“He wasn’t the same before. The Soldier is part of him, part of who he is, and without that part…without that part he’s not the man I know. The man I love.”

Steve nods, pretending to understand. Steve never did come to terms with the darkness the Soldier had brought to Buck. Being a sniper meant you had to possess a certain ability to detach yourself from death and the faces through the scope, but the Soldier took it to another level, taking Buck with him. Steve hated that, resented it, but he couldn’t have Buck without the Soldier.

“Do you think it was painful? When they…when the snap happened?”

Steve looks at you. Tears are welling in your eyes and the urge to wipe them away is almost too much. He forces his hands to stay at his sides, thinking on the memory. Buck hadn’t looked like he was in pain.

“Steve?”

His voice had called across the clearing, catching Steve’s attention. He sounded concerned, but there was a curiosity there too. When Steve had turned, his metal arm was disappearing into the wind, and by the time Steve had crossed the clearing, the rest of Buck was ash. His face went last, eyes locking on Steve, mouth opening to speak before going with the rest of him. His gun clattering to the ground and Steve kneeling, hand skimming the ash. As if by holding it in his palm, he was willing Buck to reappear. He’d rolled to sit, hand still in the ash.

“Oh, God.”

It was all Steve could say. It took them a full day to sort out who of the team was left. 

“No. No, there wasn’t any pain.”

You’re shaking as Steve recounts the moment to you and he desperately wants to reach out. Just to rest his hand on yours, just to tell you it’s alright, and to remind you he understands.

“It’s not your fault.”

Your words surprise Steve a bit.

“I know I keep blaming you, but it’s not your fault. I know you, and he, the whole team, I know you all did everything you could.”

Steve waits for you to continue, but you leave it there. He wants to coax forgiveness out of you, but he forces himself not to push. You know what he wants to hear from you and your eyes flash with anger before you speak again.

“I won’t forgive you for what you’ve done since we lost him.”

The finality of your statement digs into Steve’s chest, twisting his heart into a knot.

“You can’t heal without forgiveness.”

“Bucky did.”

Steve feels your words like a slap. You’re right. Buck moved forward, built a life, but never forgot what Hydra had done to him. The prospect of never knowing a life with your forgiveness is almost more than he can bear.

“That’s different.”

His voice breaks a little

“No, it isn’t. They subjected him to a life of misery, and you’ve done the same to me.”

“I’d never do what they did.”

“You recognize it, though. You know what they are, but you still act like them and still have the audacity to paint yourself as some righteous man painted a criminal by the Accords and Tony Stark.”

“I could never do what they did to him. They tortured him, for years, decades, and broke him down to something…someone else.”

“Recognizing what they did is not the same as experiencing it yourself, Steve. You can ever understand what he went through, not fully, but you pretend you do, as if you went through it with him. You were presumed dead in the Arctic circle when they broke him. You read those files as a means to an end, so you could find him and return him to who he was. He will _never_ be the Bucky Barnes you knew before the war. He can’t go back, just like I can’t go back to before you decided I belong to you, decided I owe you something. You didn’t have to rescue me. You could have left me to Hydra. You could have let Natasha or Bucky shoot me in that office, but you didn’t. _You_ made the choice to involve yourself in my life, and I don’t owe you anything for giving me your time.”

You’re breathing heavily, holding back more tears. You’re yelling now and you hold up the photo of Bucky in your fist.

“ _This_ man is dead. He died the minute Bucky fell off that train and no amount of therapy or Wakandan tech or your praying is going to change that. No amount of the star-spangled man with a plan will change it. _You_ can’t heal without recognizing that.”

“I have lost more than you could ever-“

“Don’t patronize me. You lost your mother, you lost Bucky twice, and you lost the team. That’s a lot of grief, but you choose to let it fester inside you like some sort of horrid disease. Bucky took his grief and his pain and funneled it into missions, into doing _good_. You choose to build this image of a pariah, the man out of time, and your anger sits with you. You refuse to accept that I will never care for you the way I care for him. It’s poisoning you, Steve, from the inside out. My decision to seek help for my grief will not be impacted by your need to project onto the people around you.”

His hands shoot out to grab your arms, gripping you tightly. You expect him to shake you, to yell back, but he does nothing. He holds you for a moment, poised to strike, and then lets his arms fall to his side.

“I have work to do.”

***

He schedules a field mission that night, taking Nat with him to the outskirts of Wakanda in an effort to stop some lowlife traffickers from stealing kids in the night. He avoids using his weapons, favoring his fists as he beats every man’s head in. Nat pulls him away from the last, who gurgles in pain. He shoves his boot into what had been the man’s mouth and presses until bones crunch.

“Rogers!”

Nat’s voice brings him back to the moment, to the children cowering in cages around them. Wakandan authorities help them escort the kids out. They photograph the scene, giving Nat a USB of the information. Steve has already returned to the jet, pulling his blood-soaked gloves off and tossing them onto the jungle floor. He hates the heat here, the humidity, and the bugs. God, he hates the bugs. Nat takes her time returning to the jet and he snaps at her when she comes up the ramp.

“We’re not here to mingle.”

“You wanna talk about the bloodbath back there?”

Steve grunts in response, hanging his tactical belt in his compartment and sinking into the pilot seat with a dull thud. Nat rolls her eyes at him but doesn’t press. She knows, she heard your speech, and she also knows you made valid points.

“Have you considered that she’s right?”

Another grunt.

“What would it hurt if she is?”

A derisive snort.

“You can’t avoid it forever. That serum is gonna make you live a while, but the rest of your life without a moment’s peace doesn’t exactly sound like a grand retirement plan to me.”

Steve rises suddenly, shoving her against the wall of the jet and curling his hand around her bicep. Nat knocks her head against the wall slightly. If she was a normal person, the actions would’ve hurt.

“Do me and you a favor. Shut. Up.”

He sulks the entire flight back and stalks out of the jet upon their landing. You come running in to see Natasha, giving Steve a wide berth as he stomps his way towards his quarters. You don’t miss the dark stains on his uniform or the smell rolling off him in waves. You follow Natasha as she heads to the showers, waiting patiently while she recounts the mission to you.

“You really did a number on him, you know that? He hasn’t been this bad since Barnes went into cryo after the Accords.”

You try not to be proud. Good, you think, he needed to be put in his place.

“I have some work to do, but you can come with if you like.”

You follow her to Tony’s office, sitting by her side and chatting idly as she uploads the content of the USB in her hand. Your voice stutters to a stop at the photos when they flash onto the monitor. Natasha quickly exits the windows.

“I’m sorry. You don’t need to see that.”

“No, it’s…it’s alright. Kids?”

“Yeah,” she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose as she leans an elbow on the desk, “Kids.”

“I want to see.”

She laughs softly.

“No, you don’t. There’s a reason Barnes kept this stuff out of your house.”

“He’s not my keeper _and_ he’s not here. I want to see.”

“Steve will have my ass.”

“Steve isn’t my keeper either and, also, not here.”

You gesture to the office. She sighs again but opens the photos. She lets you take over the mouse, giving you time to click through and process. The kids are young. Very young.

“Why did they take them?”

“I don’t think you-“

“Natasha, please.”

She looks at the ceiling and groans.

“The boys they take to groom into soldiers. They release them into the field when they’re ten as martyrs for the cause. The girls are taken to serve in homes of the drug lords and crooks of the world. When they’re older they become useful in other ways.”

“And when they’re too old?”

Her silence tells you the answer. You click through the same few images of Steve, fists flying and blood splattering across his face. His hair, longer than it had been in a while, hangs in his face slightly. He looks feral. It gives you a chill as you turn away from the monitor.

“Do you deal with kids a lot?”

“We don’t avoid missions with kids, but they’re always worse than the ones without.”

“Why didn’t he call for other team members?”

“He likes the glory.”

“You mean the violence.”

“It’s the same thing to him these days.”

She inhales deeply.

“He wasn’t always like this. Sure, he’s always been an angry little shit, but even after New York, he believed in the power the team held. When he found out about Hydra, about what they’d done, he lost that faith. He hasn’t found something to put faith in again. He’s tried, but the closest thing has been you, and you’ve seen how he handles that.”

“But you stay here, with him.”

She pauses.

“I didn’t have anything before Fury brought me into this team. They became my family, my reason to fight, and playing both sides is one of my special skills. I don’t agree with the things Steve has done, especially the things he’s done to you, but I still care about him. He is part of my family.”

You nod along. You understand, but don’t agree. Natasha’s commitment to remaining in the grey space between you and Steve didn’t annoy you the way it did Steve, but it did make you feel a certain way.

“He won’t change even if he finds his faith.”

“I know.”

***

Steve continues sending them on field missions, coming back each time bloodier than the last. You steer clear of him, revolving your schedule around avoidance tactics. He still watches, eyes raking over you while you cook or when you’re sitting in the living area by the quarters. This is where he finds you after a trip to Algeria for some hostage bullshit. You’re curled around the arm of the couch wearing a red shirt that had belonged to Buck. He can see sleep shorts peeking out from under the hem. Your knees are up next to your chest, thighs squished against your stomach. He pauses, tilting his head as he looks at how the moonlight from the windows bathes your skin in soft white. He’s moving towards you, kneeling in front of your figure to stare for a moment. You stir slightly, nose scrunching, and you yawn. By the time you’ve opened your eyes fully, he’s moved past you to the hallway. You look around, then at the clock, and rub your eyes.

You can feel him. Worse than that, you can smell him. Bucky had been diligent about coming home clean. He never wanted you to see him the way Steve was now. You know there had been missions where he had been, you’d seen the crust of dried blood under his fingernails. He’d held you tighter those nights and a few days after. He wouldn’t let Lily out of his sight. It was endearing.

But this?

This was a nightmare. Your turn to where he stands in the shadows and take a moment just to look at him. You’d seen a nature documentary once where a rabbit had looked at a wolf hunting it before giving chase. Physically, Steve wouldn’t chase you. Even if ran screaming from the room, he would remain in his corner. In your head, though? Where he sought to manifest himself? This was the moment to stand your ground, to remind him you could be just as strong as he made himself appear. You turn slowly, heading for Tony’s office. Natasha sits behind the desk, the little lamp on the corner the only light as she types away. The door closes loudly behind you.

“I need your help.”

You pause as she moves out from behind the desk.

“Teach me how to fight.”


	19. An Announcement

Hey y’all. I just wanted to preface these next few chapters with a sort of “pre-trigger warning” Warning. I’ve explored a lot of different themes in this work, but I’ve never shied away from telling the story as realistically as I could within my universe’s parameters. That being said, for this fic to reach the resolution I have planned, we’re going to get into some more trauma before our reader character finds peace. I know repeated trauma can be well, repetitive, but I intend to make it as interesting to read as I can.   
The cycle of abuse our reader is experiencing with Steve is just that: a cycle. There has been healing and positivity, but the cycle is going to continue into the next phase of negativity before our reader is able to finally break out.   
I’m not doing this senselessly. Our timeline is drawing closer to the MCU Endgame events. Those events and our story need to match up in a logical sense to create a better conclusion for our reader and her family.   
I can’t thank everyone enough for your supportive comments as we’ve progressed. Talk soon.

Xoxo,  
AK


	20. Chapter 20

“I need you to understand that my skills took years of conditioning to achieve.”

Natasha sits across the desk, looking over her laced fingers at you.

“So, I’m not going to be sugarcoating or pulling punches. You won’t learn that way and it’ll make you less able should you need to actually use what I’m going to teach you.”

“And what are you going to teach me?”

She lights the desk up with a hologram. It’s a tier system, broken down into lessons and progress by week. She points at the bottom.

“Right now, we’re here. And depending on what you want to learn, you can end up here.”

She gestures to the top. You squint at the lines and words dancing in front of you.

“I want to learn how to defend myself.”

“That’s a broad statement.”

An image of a rifle crosses in front of your face as the diagram spins.

“No guns.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow.

“I don’t have a good explanation.”

“No explanation needed.”

So, you begin. She explains the importance of being healthy before starting a training course and researching what you’re training in. The pair of you put together a regimen of sorts, a schedule for what you should be working on to prepare. In your “free time,” she brings you books on different styles of combat, weapons, and anatomy.

“Why do I need to know about anatomy? Shouldn’t I just, ya know, go for the throat or whatever?”

“Everyone has different weak points depending on a thousand different factors. Body type, medical history, lifestyle; it all matters if you want to fight efficiently. When they took me to the Red Room, they trained me to look at a person and sort through all of their weakness with one look. That type of skill takes years to hone, but if you know the basics, it’s enough to help you.”

She demonstrates techniques for you, sending videos with you to study. She explains how her gauntlets work, why they work well and gives you a chance to put them on. You look at the mirrored wall of the armory, twisting your wrists to give you a better look at them.

“Don’t get any ideas. You’re not becoming an agent, which means you don’t need something this advanced. A weapon of your own though, something you’re comfortable using and carrying with you, wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

She waves you over to the compartment next to hers.

“Friday, unlock armory compartment 4.”

“Compartment 4, Barnes, unlocked.”

The wall slides to the side to reveal a cabinet. A rack of guns is displayed on the left, a jacket, and case of knives on the right. You run your fingers over the sleeve of the jacket. It’s leather, or at least it feels like leather. You recognize Kevlar as the lining as you unzip it and take it from the hangar. There are patches sewn to the inside. A plain Army shield, a 107th label, and the Howling Commandos symbol. Stitched along the collar are his dog tag number, full name, and rank. It’s all hand-done, shaky and disjointed, in a white yarn-like thread.

“The material is called Novex. It’s highly durable, flexible, and the Kevlar inside is resistant to small-arms fire at long to mid-range.”

You offer a small “hm” in response, continuing to run you index finger over the stitched writing. Natasha comes to stand next to you and puts a hand on your forearm. You hang the jacket back on the hangar, smoothing it before turning to the array of weapons. There are three large guns on the rack with a couple of hand models hanging above.

“Those were his rifles. Well, I guess one of them is technically mine, but I let him use it. I know you said no guns, so we’re going to focus on these instead.”

She gestures to the case of knives. They’re a set of four, hanging meticulously in order of blade size. Natasha opens the case door and hands them to you one by one.

“Benchmade SOCP dagger. Small blade, good for extreme close quarters. The ring at the end helps it to maneuver without a lot of effort”

You hook your finger in the ring, giving it a tentative spin.

“Gerber yari 2 tanto. It’s the most straight forward pocket-type knife you can have.”

You take note of the slightly serrated edge just before the handle begins.

“Bayonet. Again, fairly straight forward. It’s more of a survival knife than a combat knife, but combat takes all kinds.”

She pauses as you consider this one. The serration comes out in blocky notches along most of the blade, ending with a curved tip. She takes the last with both hands, resting the blade in her palm.

“ _This_ is a Gerber Mark II. His knife of choice and mine. It was issued to Army soldiers in Vietnam. It’s designed to be holstered or hidden, used in close quarters mostly, but I’ve found it makes a decent throwing weapon. He had this one made after T’Challa’s sister deconditioned him.”

You take it from her, flipping it over in your hands. It feels nice, you decide, looking closer at the blade. Double-edged, with a zig-zag-like serration pattern starting a quarter of the way down. The metal’s been altered to appear black, the only silver shining on the edges of the blade tip and in the triangular bit atop the guard. A single star engraved on either side reveals more of the silver metal beneath. The guard curls slightly at the ends before giving way to the black handle. A line of silver runs around the handle’s seams and you follow the line with your finger. You’re vaguely aware of Natasha’s voice, but it takes you a moment to focus.

“There’s a holster in the locker. It straps around your waist and thigh for easy access.”

She’s handing it to you, but your hands have begun to shake, and the holster clatters on the floor. Natasha stops for a moment and considers you.

“Hey, do you need a minute?”

Your lip is quivering as you nod, picking the holster up off the floor. The part to hold the knife has a leather covering to match the leather of the belt and thigh straps. You stare at the belt as it lays in your hands. You know the damage Bucky could’ve done with the knife. You want to know how he did it, how you could do it, and a small part of you shudders at your desire for violence. You’re fastening the holster around your waist subconsciously, only realizing what you’ve done when you’re tightening the thigh strap. You slide the Mark II into the holster, and it feels _good_. When Natasha returns you’ve put the SOCP into a smaller slot on the holster as well, deciding it was your favorite of the remaining three.

“It suits you.”

She leads you out of the armory and to the training gym, laying out a series of plastic models.

“We’ll use these until you feel confident enough to try it with the real thing. I gotta warn you, I don’t know nearly as much about knife fighting as Barnes did, but I’ll give you everything I know.”

She picks up one of the models and offers it to you. It’s similar to the Mark II.

“Alright, let’s begin.”

***

You don’t think your body has ever hurt so much. It’s a deep ache, down in your muscle and bone, but you know it’s a sign of progress. It takes three weeks, hours of practice every day, for you to land a hit on Natasha. It isn’t even a real hit, it’s just a sweep, but your chest swells with pride when she hits the mat. She’s surprised but recovers quickly.

“Good. Now do it again.”

You sweep her twice more before the day is out. Your first actual hit comes a week later when you land a resounding deck to her cheek. Your immediate response is to clap your hands over your mouth and reach out to apologize. She sweeps your legs and clambers onto you, poised to strike.

“Never let your guard down. It was a good hit, but you ruined it by being sorry.”

She sports a slight bruise for a few days. When Steve finds out you gave it to her, he’s conflicted about whether to laugh or sulk. You shouldn’t be training like this, with Nat, or anyone for that matter. You shouldn’t know how to incapacitate someone, it’s not information you’ll need, and his nose crinkles as he pours over the camera footage of your training. He tried hanging around the gym for the first few days, but you refused to do anything with him there. Nat stepped in, the ever-patient mediator, and diffused the situation. Steve had been fuming at the sight of Buck’s knife strap on you. You’d brandished Buck’s knife at him, pointing the tip of it at Steve and stating, “You can leave on your own or you can leave with the medical team.”

He made a begrudging exit and took to sulking behind the camera screen. Nat knew, occasionally glancing at the nearest camera when you do something well. He watches you become better and better, growing in confidence as the work with real knives begins. Nat dishes out a particularly nasty cut to your arm and where Steve expected you to call for a stop, you instead roll back to shield yourself from further blows. You launch at her with fervor, the tackle knocking Nat to the ground and giving you the opportunity to hold Buck’s knife to her throat. You laugh I delight at your move, and Nat smiles up at you, complimenting the maneuver.

Steve fumes some more.

And then a mission comes along a couple of months in to disrupt the training. You do solo work against a Stark bot until they return. You’re asleep on the couch when the quinjet roars into the hangar. Exhausted from your long hours, your body gives out on you as you’re waiting. You don’t stir when Steve comes in and he pauses to look at you. Splayed out across the sectional, you look more peaceful than he’s seen you in months. Over a year, maybe. He squats near your face and smiles as you snore lightly. He wants so desperately to brush the hair out of your face, and his hand moves before he can stop it. Your eyes flash open, Buck’s knife loosed from your waist and held to Steve’s neck. Cold anger holds his gaze and you clench your jaw.

“Get away from me.”

You hiss, pressing the blade into his skin slightly. Steve moves to grab it from you and your drop it into your other hand, the tip now sitting squarely under Steve’s jaw.

“I said, _get away from me_.”

Another attempt to take the knife has you twisting his wrist away, the knife now back at his throat. If Steve were a normal person, the pain in his wrist would have warned him to back off, but he tries again. A crack echoes through the room and you drop his wrist as if it’s burned you. Your eyes widen slightly as it falls, limply, to Steve’s side. You shoot backward over the back of the couch and don’t stop running until you’re back in your room. You bolt the door and tell Friday to allow no one in. You sink against it, head in your hands, trying to remember how to breathe.

_This is why you were training._

_You did everything you were supposed to._

_You’re safe here._

_You made yourself safe by reacting the way you had._

It still takes you a solid few minutes to calm yourself. Out in the living room, Steve stares at his wrist. You’d done that. How could you do that? To him of all people? After all the things he’s done to keep you safe, you hurt him like this. He feels blood pricking along his neck from where Buck’s knife had bit into his skin. Nat sees him crouched over and stops short.

“What’s wrong?”

“She broke my wrist.”

Nat stifles a laugh.

“What?”

“She broke my fucking wrist.”

Steve rounds on her.

“And you taught her how to do it. What were you thinking?”

Unfazed, Nat offers him nothing but a smirk.

“I was thinking she’d be _safe_.”

“Of course, she’s safe.”

“She doesn’t seem to think so.”

“I’m not having this discussion with you again. Friday! Alert the med team I need some assistance.”

Natasha waits until Steve’s left for the medical suite to knock lightly on your door. It slides open slightly and your tear-filled eyes peek out at her. She stays the night with you and reiterates you did nothing wrong. You do solo training the next day.

In Tony’s office, Steve glares at the cast on his wrist.

 _Ridiculous_.

He tunes in to the camera feed to watch you furiously fight with one of the training bots. Knowing you could hurt him would give you more confidence, open the door to more freedom. You could leave again. Nat would help you disappear, and Steve wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. He couldn’t have it, wouldn’t have it. You needed to remain at the compound, but with Nat playing nanny he couldn’t keep you here without her interference. He needed something, anything to get Nat away from you. He just needed a chance to reason with you, to explain how vital his protection was, and then you’d understand. He’d make you understand.

_You had to understand._


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked where we are in the timeline SO as of this chapter we're 1 year and 10 months into the post-Snap 5 yr period. I've had a note page covered in scribbles making sure I adhere to our time frame.  
> Additionally: I heard a song which made me think of our reader a little bit SO if you're feelin' it go listen to Vicious by Tate McRae. It's a breakup song, but there are some parts that fit the dynamic between Steve and our reader.  
> Thanks for all your support!  
> XOXO,  
> AK

Steve searches diligently for the right mission after your outburst. Despite his efforts, no one is looking for long term fieldwork, recon or otherwise. It’s another late night of looking when you come into Tony’s office, jumping slightly when you see him. The cast had been taken off a few days back and your eyes linger on his wrist for a moment.

“Did you need something?”

Steve does his best to speak softly. Coming across aggressive now would only make things worse. You don’t answer, plucking a book off one of the shelves and turning on your heel. The door slams behind you, echoing around Steve.

_Something had to come up._

After two months, he’s given up, pushed any hope of time alone with you out of his mind. And then, it falls into his lap. He tends to ignore emails from Secretary Ross’s office, but this one catches his attention. It’s late, again, and the notification dings from the corner of the desktop.

Barton

Steve squints at the subject. Barton? What does that even mean? He clicks, his screen suddenly dominated by the image in the email. It’s a wanted poster, an Asian script underneath, and English underneath that.

**Wanted for questioning.**

The face is undeniably Clint’s. His hair is cropped short on the sides and there’s a cut across his cheek. Despite the implications, Steve is giddy. He prints off the poster and rushes out the door. Nat is with you, of course, training, of course. In the time it’s taken to find her a mission, Nat’s gifted you a small set of throwing knives with a holographic finish. You’re working on a dummy, the knives lodging in different appendages. When you see him in the doorway, you look at him before landing one in the middle of the dummy’s face.

“You know she doesn’t want you here.”

“I’m not here for her. I’ve got something you need to see.”

Steve hands her the paper and she freezes for a moment. Her mouth opens slightly, words ready on the tip of her tongue, but they die before being spoken. You stop throwing and come over to stand over her shoulder.

“Is that-“

“Yes.”

Nat’s voice is hoarse. Clint disappeared shortly before you did. Nat had gone out to his farm but found nothing.

“Keep practicing.”

It’s a bark, a snap, and you recoil slightly at her tone. She leaves the gym, the paper wrinkling in her grasp, and she heads straight for the conference room.

“Friday, pull up files on Project Bird Eye.”

Months of dead ends and whispers spring to life along the walls.

“Friday, scan this.”

The wanted poster joins the whirlpool of information.

“Project Bird Eye?”

“I’ve been keeping tabs where I could, but it all went cold a few months back.”

She flicks through a series of police reports.

“He’s been all over Southeast Asia taking out any underbelly asshole he can get his hands on. They’re executions, but there’s…there’s always more.”

She’s fiddling with her necklace, finger running over the stones in the arrowhead.

“Are you going after him?”

Steve keeps his voice level, but his heart is threatening to burst through his ribs.

“Where did you get this?”

“Ross’s office sent it over.”

“So, you didn’t go looking for it?”

“Nat, I would never-“

“You’re a terrible liar, Rogers, you always have been.”

“I’ll show you the email if you don’t believe me.”

She doesn’t answer, just turns to stare at the wanted poster. She brings up a mugshot, dated shortly after the snap, and puts them up next to each other. Footsteps in the hall cause Steve to turn and you lean in the doorway, flipping the smallest of your throwing knives over your fingers.

“What’s going on?”

“There might be a mission.”

“I didn’t ask _you_.”

She looks pointedly at Nat.

“Natasha?”

Your voice is gentle as you cross the room to her, reaching out and placing your hand on her bicep. Nat’s eyes are red, and she sniffs softly.

“Leave us.”

You mutter to Steve and he doesn’t have to be told twice. He retreats to his quarters.

“Friday, pull up the feed for the cameras in conference room 4.”

The pair of you have sat at the table and you’re trying to make Nat look you in the eye.

“Natasha, talk to me. What is it?”

“I’ve been chasing dead leads for months, since the Snap, and I just…it can’t be this easy. He’s out there and-and I can go, but I…”

She pauses.

“I always thought I’d be the one to turn down this sort of path and he would be the one to bring me back. After everything, after the Red Room, I just never thought…”

“If you need to go get him, then go get him.”

She looks at you finally. No tears are being shed, but it’s not without difficulty on Nat’s part.

“When he brought me to SHIELD, I would have died before coming to this side of things, but he worked with me. Spent months, years really, showing me how powerful mercy can be, and then when they made me an agent, he gave me this.”

She presses her fingers to the arrow necklace resting on her clavicle. It’s simple, with three stones resting in the arrowhead, and you smile at her.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It was before Laura, before the kids, and I…”

“He’s your Bucky.”

She laughs at your words. It's a sorrow-filled sound.

“I tell myself it’s not true, and I tell myself his life with his family is what he deserves. I could never give him that, even if I wanted to, but there are moments I wish we’d had the chance to try.”

“Go after him, then. Remind him what he taught you.”

She glances past you to the camera above the doorway.

“And what about you?”

“What about me? You need to go. There’s no room for ifs or buts.”

“I don’t trust Steve to leave you alone.”

You sigh.

“I will handle anything that comes up.”

She looks into your eyes and something hardens.

“I don’t know what he’ll do if I’m not here. At one time, I knew his limits, but now? I don’t know what he’s capable of anymore.”

You hadn’t considered this. His need for control was obvious and the fights only made it worse. How far would he go? Would he-no, you decide, he wouldn’t. An idea strikes you suddenly.

“What if you take back up with you to find Clint?”

“Steve’s not great at the subtleties that come with this type of work.”

“I wasn’t talking about him.”

Her eyes widen and she stands, looking past you again to stare through the camera at Steve. He abandons the feed, stalking towards the conference room. This was too much. By the time he gets there, Nat’s dragged you off to her quarters. Anger roars in his chest. Nat wouldn’t take you. She couldn’t take you. He wouldn’t let her. He’s moving through the conference room, the compound, and he comes to loom over Nat’s door. His fist is pounding against it, voice echoing down the corridor as he yells through the metal.

“Natasha!”

No answer. Inside, you find yourself shaking slightly at the beating the door is taking.

“Friday, open the door to Agent Romanoff’s quarters!”

“Agent Romanoff has denied access to quarters.”

“Activate override code Rogers twenty-one!”

“Access denied.”

“Friday! Activate override code Rogers twenty-one!”

“Access denied.”

He gives the door another hit with his fist before smacking one of Nat’s plants off the stand in the hall. It clatters to the floor, dirt spilling everywhere, and he lets out a cry. You could die out there.

“She’s not an agent, Nat!”

No answer. Desperation creeps in to make his blood run cold.

“Natasha, please!”

His voice cracks on the last word. He sinks to kneel at the bottom of the frame. His hands shake, the knuckles beginning to bruise, and he rolls to sit against the wall. It occurs to him Nat’s quarters are one of the few with a back door.

***

Natasha opens a locker of clothing.

“Pick out your size and change. Put the weapons you want to take in a go-bag. We’ll worry about everything else once we’re out.”

The outfit is plain, just tactical pants and a tight athletic top. She tosses you a pair of boots similar to her own. You lace them up and start strapping on your knives. Bucky’s holster on your right side and a new holder for your throwing knives on your right. You strap another inside your boot and the last on your back. Sitting on a shelf in Bucky’s locker is a plastic mask designed to cover from his nose to his chin. You consider it, pressing it up to your face. It’s comfortable, and you toss it into the bag before braiding your hair and twisting it into an updo. Natasha turns to you, decked out in her own tactical gear, and hoists a duffel up over her shoulder.

“You ready?”

“You think he’s out in the hangar?”

“Probably, but the jet is ready. Once we’re in it, there’s nothing he can do. We’ll pit stop in Wakanda to get the rest of what we need.”

You nod and the pair of you stand ready behind the armory door. Steve is ready on the other side. He’s not sure what to expect as he peers around the corner of the doorway opposite the armory. When the door slides open, he starts towards the jet. A streak of color shoots past his ear and the wind from it whistles slightly. You have another poised on your shoulder.

“I didn’t have to miss.”

You circle around him to recover the one you’d thrown and prep it in your hand.

“I believe you.”

“You need to go.”

“You need to stay. It’s too dangerous for you to go out there.”

You scoff at him.

“ _You_ are too dangerous, Steve.”

“I’d never-“

“Shut up. Don’t bullshit me.”

He draws closer and you fling one of the daggers, close enough this time to nick his ear. The cut stings and Steve struggles to keep himself under control Natasha scoops your knife up behind him, taking your bags into the quinjet.

“Nat, stop.”

It’s a plea.

“This is her choice.”

“She’s not ready.”

“I trained her myself. Recon is low key enough for her to come along.”

“She’s not an agent!”

“I never said she was.”

“She could die!”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here!”

Another dagger makes contact, cutting his cheek. He takes it from the floor and tucks it into his belt.

“I’m not going to fight you over a knife.”

“You’re running out.”

“I don’t need them.”

The two of you circle each other, Steve trying to anticipate, but deep down he knows he’s beat. You begin to back up the ramp into the quinjet. Steve’s yelling, pulling your knife from his belt, and aiming wildly. The knife clatters onto the quinjet floor and you smile at him. It’s a sickly-sweet look and he feels his stomach drop. The jet engines roar as it starts to rise out of the hangar. 

“Don’t wait up.”


	22. Hey kids

Hi everyone. Just touching base.   
I have a chapter in the works, life has just been hectic. It’s my last semester of school and I have two different term papers to put together. I’m a history major and these theses are exhausting. Additionally, my school is pulling some mega dumbassery in the face of COVID, and as a student worker, I’ve been facing the brunt of the grunt work,  
BUT as I said I am working, it’s just a bit slow going. Thank you for your patience and support.   
Xoxo, AK


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I know it's been a bit and this is a bit boring, but it's an important context establisher so pls enjoy it.

It’s early morning when you touch down in front of the palace. T’Challa’s mother greets you, eyes full of worry. She welcomes you with open arms, offering resources for the trip. Natasha takes the day to plan and rest, cataloging anything and everything the two of you might need. You find yourself drawn to the terrace overlooking the city. Your eye scans the horizon, thinking of the little house on the lake sitting abandoned out past the city. Forever understanding, Natasha comes to you before it’s time to leave, offering a field trip of sorts.

“Have you been back since?”

“No, I….It wasn’t somewhere I wanted to be.”

“Would you like to?”

You sigh, hugging yourself tightly.

“No. There’s nothing there for me anymore.”

She leads you to a guest room near the landing pad and offers you a box of hair dye. You look at yourself in the mirror and touch your hair. You haven’t cut it since the snap. You don’t think it’s ever been this long and your focus falls onto the scissors on the counter.

“You take the dye.”

An hour later, Natasha is a bottle blonde again and you…well, you’ve gotten a bit carried away and taken a pair of clippers to your head. With some help from Natasha, you’re sporting a buzz cut. It feels _good_. Natasha smiles when you marvel at your reflection. You can’t stop running your fingers over the shorn locks and Nat disappears to check over the quinjet. You don’t think anything of it until the engines rumble to life in the distance. By the time you reach the hangar, she’s loading the plane with only her gear. You’re dumbfounded as you stand in the doorway. If she sees you, she doesn’t let on.

“You unloaded my stuff.”

“You’re staying here.”

You balk and sputter in response.

“It’s safer for you here. Steve won’t come prowling around and I don’t know where I’m going to end up with this. I may not find Clint and I don’t want to make you go back to the compound if you don’t have to. It’s better this way.”

Bile rises in your throat.

“You brought me out here just to dump me.”

“I planned to take you, in the beginning, but the more I thought about it…”

She trails off. She’s struggling to maintain composure, visibly torn as she boards the jet.

“You don’t have to stay here, I know it’s painful, but you have a good jumping-off point if you want it.”

“Nat, I’ve trained and trained for months. I can help you. Please, don’t leave me.”

Helplessness shrouds your voice. You know she’s going to leave without you. Still, you plead with her and sob when she closes the ramp. The jet lifts off and you watch it disappear into the sky. A hand on your shoulder grounds you enough to gather your things from the hangar floor. The queen smiles at you sadly and offers you a place in the palace. You spend the night tossing and turning, never quite falling asleep. You find yourself sitting out on a balcony watching the sunrise. The warmth of the light falls onto your chilled skin but doesn’t penetrate. You rub your arms a bit before going back inside. The desire to leave is too great to ignore and when you approach the queen, she already has a private plane fully fueled for you. The queen sends money with you to pay for whatever housing you need to establish yourself. You thank her for her charity, guilt racking your brain at the thought of taking from her. She waves you off, telling you it’s the least she can provide.

“You’ve done so much for Bucky, I couldn’t possibly –“

“The White Wolf’s family was protected here when there were three and it will remain protected now that it is one. Anywhere you need to go, our pilot will take you, but you are always welcome here.” 

You thank her and board the plane.

_Where to now?_

The pilot’s question should be simple. You need somewhere you can blend and disappear. Europe feels like an obvious choice. You’ve always wanted to see the Mediterranean, but with no knowledge of Greek or Italian, you worry you’ll stand out too much. Of course, Steve thinks you’re heading to Southeast Asia, so by the time he catches on, it won’t matter where you end up. The pilot suggests Crete. Small, out of the way, and an easygoing atmosphere. It sounds nice. You settle into your seat as the engines whine into gear. Maybe Crete will give you the peace you’ve been looking for.

***

Steve stays knelt on the hangar floor long after the quinjet has faded from view. You’re gone, again. With Natasha helping you, again. You’re blaming him for it, again. He knows there are trackers in the quinjets following Banner’s excursion off-world. He’s slow to leave his place on the concrete. He finds himself in your room, searching for any signal of where the two of you would be going. You’ve taken your camera with you. He recalls fondly the smile on your face when he’d presented it to you. He’d designed that house so carefully, hoping he’d be living in it with you one day. Instead, Buck got to live in the fruits of Steve’s labor. He sits on the corner of your bed, sighing deeply. The room smells like you. Some scent you picked up in the city with lavender. You’ve got a crocheted baby hat sitting on your dresser. Steve can only assume it was for your son. Exhaustion pulls at him and he can’t find it in himself to leave as he flops onto his side over your blanket. He sleeps like a rock and when he wakes, it’s as if he’s blinked rather than slept for a few hours. He heads to the main conference room.

“Friday, show me the coordinates of jet 3.”

“Jet 3 last known location: Hangar bay 3.”

“Show me current coordinates.”

“Unavailable.”

“Why?”

“Tracking system cannot access jet 3 coordinates.”

“Why?”

“Jet 3 last known location Hangar bay 3.”

Steve throws his hands up in frustration. _Of course_. Of course, Nat would mess with the tracking. Of course, this couldn’t resolve itself easily. He assumes the pair of you stop somewhere familiar to regroup ahead of the mission. Wakanda is familiar and you would be comfortable there. Steve brings up the communications files and Friday projects in an image of the queen.

“Your majesty.”

“Captain Rogers. This is a surprise.”

“I’m looking for Natasha. She’s gone rogue and-“

“Agent Romanoff?”

“Yes, and she took-“

“Rogue? This doesn’t seem like something Agent Romanoff would do?”

“Yes, well she’s gone after Agent Barton, but I’m trying to find-“

“Is she planning to bring Agent Barton here?”

“No, I believe she stopped to-“

“Stopped here?”

“Yes, and she had-“

“We have no record of a jet landing.”

“But did one land?”

“Captain, we have no records of a jet landing.”

As respectfully as he can, Steve ends the call. Even the queen was willing to go up against him. No tracking, no idea where they’ll end up beyond Barton’s wanted poster’s location. He sighs, slumping down into a chair and rubbing his chin.

“Friday, show me all the information Agent Romanoff gathered on Agent Barton’s whereabouts.”

“These files have been classified.”

“Override, Rogers 6-3-1.”

“Access denied.”

“Override, Captain 6-3-1.”

“Access denied.”

“Friday, are there physical copies of those files?”

“Last location of physical files, Agent Romanoff’s quarters.”

Nat’s quarters. Of course.

“Friday, am I still locked out of Nat’s quarters?”

“Lockout protocol was lifted after Agent Romanoff left the compound.”

Steve sighs. Tricky little thing. He makes his way to her quarters. The files are scattered across her kitchen island. He gathers them into a haphazard pile and returns to the conference table. Months of research done in secret topped off with the wanted poster as her best lead. The best she had come up with was a small town in Vietnam where someone by the name of Ronin was operating as a mercenary for hire. The description of the man known to the locals as Ronin fit Barton to a t. He pours over the files again and again for any hint beyond these crumbs, but to no avail. There’s a SHIELD operated boat of the coast and he has Friday pull cameras of the loading dock. The picture’s grainy, but there’s no denying it’s the quinjet landing on the boat. A smaller speedboat disembarks and arrives by the dock. Steve’s not sure if it’s horror or anger he’s experiencing as a single person is left on the dock. Bright blonde hair shines under the orange streetlamp. She’s left you behind.

***

The house you find is just off the beach, stone, and overgrown with ivy. The first floor is a small kitchen and living space with a loft bedroom up a set of spiral stairs. A small patio off the bedroom gives you access to a view of the sea. The water, impossibly blue, beckons you to it every day. The nearby town is a 5-10-minute walk. You trade the little money you have of your own for euros. There’s a market in the town where you stop every couple of days to pick up fresh items. You find a job working in a bakery. You don’t interact with the customers much, working in the back to knead and load the oven. It’s hot, almost unbearably, but the constant breeze coming in the back door helps immensely. The old man who runs the bakery knows enough English for you to talk casually and after a week, you’ve picked up a few words in Greek. You buy an English to Greek dictionary from a bookshop nearby. In the evenings you walk in the soft sand and watch the sun reflect off the water. Sometimes you sit and watch it set completely. There are moments when you hug your knees to your chest and tremble, wondering how long your idyllic life here can really last. You know Steve is out there, looking, but how could he find you here?

***

Steve throws his files off the table and yells in exasperation. You’d been left in Wakanda, but beyond a single private plane leaving in the night, there’s no record of where you may have gone. The destination of the private plane remained unrecorded or had been deleted from the log system. You could have gone anywhere. Really, anywhere, and Steve can’t think of where to begin. He needs a therapy session.

His knuckles are white from gripping the wheel the entire way to the city. He’s shaking when he gets to the rec center. It’s not his usual Saturday group, but it’ll have to do. A couple of the regulars recognize him and offer smiles. When the floor opens, he listens intently. He never shares, only ever offers solutions to the problems others have as a distraction from his own predicaments. He chews the inside of his lip. One of the women bounces a baby on her lap and Steve finds himself watching the child. A boy, with light hair, wearing little overalls and orange shoes. Steve had never thought he’d find someone to start a family with, but he couldn’t deny it was something he’d wanted. Always present in the back of his mind when he thought of the Captain America mantle was when he’d have his chance at a normal life. How could he retire from saving the world? The world needs heroes, and so it would call on him to be a hero no matter what the personal cost. The woman offers the baby around to those who wish to hold him. When Steve’s chance comes, he takes it and finds himself infatuated with the little fists gripping his thumbs. The baby’s head smells clean, like soap and lotion, and Steve smiles softly at the little boy’s ruddy cheeks. So different from the purple mass you’d birthed in the quinjet. Steve remembers little Lily’s face, with the same roundness, and bright-eyed wonder.

 _A baby,_ Steve thinks, _a baby of your own_. _Of his own_.


	24. Chapter 24

Steve looks at the cabin and sighs. Six months of work finally complete. He thumps down onto the couch and takes a swig of beer. It’s cozy, on the surface. He wants you to be comfortable, but he knows you’ll fight him at first. He’s spent so long imagining the moment you arrive, and he only hopes you’ll live up to his expectations. Forcing you to stay there wouldn’t be easy on his own, but the reinforced windows and doors would keep you safe while you carried the baby. There were times Steve had to stop, consider how you would hate him in the beginning, and he had to admit he wondered if it would be worth it. You wanted a family. You needed people to care for to feel whole, and Steve would be giving you that. He’d considered using the masking tech Nat had worn during the Triskelion battle, given you the vision of a life with Bucky you’d lost, but above all Steve wanted to be honest with you.

A baby. A family. Safety and security.

He’d built the cabin to withstand anything the mountain winter could throw at it. He’d stay with you, ignore the missions and be a family man. He found himself standing in the nursery, looking at the little yellow hat from your dresser. He’d built the nursery around it. Dark wood furniture built with his own hands, soft yellow blankets, with touches of white and cream all around. He’d painted a tree onto the wall, emulating the bookshelf from Lily’s room. He wanted familiarity for you, to comfort you, and remind you of fond memories. He’d given himself a bedroom at the other end of the house. He supposes calling it a cabin is an understatement. The nursery was one of four bedrooms, the fourth an office for whoever needed, on the second floor. The first held the kitchen and dining space, a small den Steve had made into a library and a living area with a large fireplace. He’d included a laundry room off the kitchen, and a large back deck looked out over the trees. Floor to ceiling windows covered the wall to the deck, letting in as much natural light as Steve could get. He wanted you to feel the sun, even if you couldn’t be outside. Your clothes and furniture from your quarters at the compound he’d moved to the bedroom across from the nursery. He’d painted it a soft purple-y grey, giving you white chiffon-y curtains to soften the light flooding in from your window. A window seat allowed you to look out onto the trees. He wanted you to arrive in autumn when the trees were flourishing with their bright colors, and you could take photos with your cameras. Maybe he’d let you wander a bit among the trees. Without a map it was difficult, even for him, to navigate this landscape. He’d decorated the house with soft things, blankets piled into a basket near the sectional in the living room, and another in the corner of the library den. He had candles ready for you to light in all your favorite smells, strategically placed to flood the house with home-y aromas.

The front door had a biometric data handle, scanning his thumbprint to let him outside. No locks on any of the internal doors, so you couldn’t shut him out again. Just the doors to the outside, of which there were three. One to the cellar, one to the garage, and one to the deck. Shatterproof glass windows, unable to be opened, and steel reinforcements where Steve felt they were needed. He finishes off the beer before retreating to his bed. He’d start his search in the morning.

***

“Καλημέρα!”

You smile as Colin sweeps into the bakery. He’s holding his youngest on his shoulders, who giggles and shrieks when he lifts her into the air to set her onto the floor. You smile at her laughter, Lily’s laugh echoing it in your memory. You’d come in early to start on a new recipe with honey and raisins. It’s your first time trying to make a milk bread and so far it’s been nothing but frustrating. You pound at the dough with your fists and grumble to yourself.

“You’ll take the air out.”

Colin rumbles from over your shoulder.

“So be it.”

He pushes you aside gently and scoops the dough back into its bowl.

“Let it rise again and then try.”

You wipe your hands on your apron and flour puffs up from the fabric.

“Take a break, go for shells with Talia.”

The little girl perks up and beams at you. She’s five, as of a few days ago, and Colin’s house is too crowded for all of the kids to stay home with the older lot. There’s six total, the oldest a son of fourteen who works at the fish stand in the market on Thursdays. You can’t remember his name, as Talia is the only one who tags along to the bakery, but he’s Colin’s carbon copy. Talia takes a small blue basket from behind the counter and hooks her little arm under the handle.

“Shells!”

It’s a demand, one of the few English words she knows, and she tugs your hand impatiently. You hang your apron on the hook by the back door and follow her down the stone steps towards the beach. She pauses at the bottom of the steps to the sand and wiggles her sandals off. You scoop them up, letting them dangle from your hand as you follow suit. The warmth of the sand grounds you. Talia races ahead of you, bounding over the mounds of sands with vigor, coming to a stop by the water’s edge.

“Wait!”

Another word Talia knows. She stamps her foot a bit as she waits for you to catch up to her. Once you’re close, she begins to inspect the sand around her for the tips of shells. When she spots one her hands jab out to scoop it from the wet sand. Occasionally she’ll take a muscle out and mumble a “bleh” before throwing it out into the water. You’re there to carry her basket when it gets too heavy and be sure she washes her hands before coming back into the bakery. She never says much to you when the pair of you walk together, but she smiles up at you when you offer her shells for her basket and holds your hand sometimes when she tires of digging in the sand. You walk for half an hour today, meandering back to the shop. You lift Talia to allow her to reach the sink for her hands and help her with her sandals. Colin takes her out to the front where she sits on the counter and sorts her shells into different piles. All the clamshells in one pile, the curved crab houses in another, and so on. Colin tells you to start a mix for koulourakia and you head to the back.

It’s the same every day, though you suppose there’s nothing wrong with the routine. You’ve enjoyed you time here, and the relief of not looking over your shoulder every few moments isn’t wasted on you. You focus on the dough, hands lost in the pattern of kneading and rolling until you hear Colin call to you about closing. As he always does, he tells you to come to his home for dinner.

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

Your broken Greek is met with a smile. He waves you off and Talia’s little hands reach out to grab at your apron. She places an oyster shell into your pocket and beams at you. You smile down at her and sigh.

“Alright then.”

You join them for dinner once every couple of weeks. It’s Colin and the kids, his wife Marta, her mother, and his mother. The house is always full of life and laughter. It’s a classic looking home, with white and blue tiling, and a large patio which overlooks the family’s garden. Marta lights up when she sees you, wrapping you in a hug, and gesturing for you to follow her to the kitchen. She offers you a glass of white wine and you take it, sipping it slowly. Her mother offers you a seat next to her and you take it, smiling at her.

You’re at dinner until late, making your way back through the town with wine buzzing through your system. You stumble slightly as you come up the front steps. The light over your front window is on, the front door slightly ajar. You pause, staring at the light flooding out onto the steps. You’d stopped wearing Bucky’s knife three months ago. You have nothing on you to defend yourself with. There’s an umbrella just inside the door. The alcohol in your blood gives you the gumption to snatch it and kick the door open the rest of the way. You raise the umbrella by the handle, scanning the room wildly. Your eyes meet a pair of round green ones.

The cat meows quizzically. You drop the umbrella, dumbfounded at the animal. It’s small, too young to be an adult, and too old to be a kitten. Short-haired with a grey spot around one eye and another close to the base of its tail, you can see an extra toe on its front left paw. It mews at you again and approaches cautiously, batting at your sandal strap. Your knees feel weak and you’re barely able to make it to a chair before they give out on you. A few murps from the cat and it wanders out the way it came in, leaving you in stunned silence. You begin wearing your knife on you again the next day. It’s tucked away under your sundress, the only thing you really wear, and you feel comforted at the coolness of the holster.

***

Steve pushes back from the desk and looks out the window. Snow covers the dead branches near the glass and the sky is a deep grey. No one kept a record of where the plane went. He’s spent weeks having Friday hack and recheck the system to no avail. All he knows is the miles lost from the fuel tank. He doesn’t even have what direction the plane lifted off to, just a sphere around Wakanda of places you could have ended up. He knows you didn’t cross the Atlantic. He knows you couldn’t have gotten far off the continent. You’re smarter than he’s given you credit for and he knows he can’t underestimate you again. You could have arrived somewhere and gone through an airport to go elsewhere. You could have changed your identity completely. No plane tickets have been bought under your name that he can find. Of course, Friday would have to scan every major airport in the sphere to truly set the possibility aside. It’s too much to fathom. So, no planes. It’s difficult to just drive through borders, especially the ones out of the continent. Of course, being American it could be easier for you. The snap caused multiple governments to collapse in already unstable countries. You could steal away under the chaos. Would you go somewhere crowded? It’d be easy to disappear into the remote reaches of the world. Maybe you hadn’t been sure where you were going, throwing your faith into a random place on a whim.

Steve watches time pass around him. The trees surround the cabin in a canopy of reds and oranges before dropping their leaves in a massive blanket. The spindly branches break the sky up into a view akin to a broken mirror. Still, Steve’s searches turn up nothing. Hopelessness begins to roost in the house as Steve’s desperation grows. With every passing month, you’re drifting further and further from him. He becomes mindless, droning on through a routine of searching and wallowing and searching some more. It’s a few days before Thanksgiving when Friday’s voice rings out across the office.

“Captain Rogers. I have a positive ID.”

***

You’re stunned when Colin hands you the ticket. After months of family dinners, afternoons spent with Talia, and even running the shop on your own a few times, the idea of leaving is preposterous.

“You are family and family takes care.”

“But I’m happy here.”

“Yes, you are happy now, but later?”

You hesitate to respond. Later? You didn’t know what later would bring, or even what you wanted it to bring. You hadn’t given it much thought, had chosen not to give it any thought, and now?

“Your story is not here, πουλάκι μου.”

You blink at him as he squeezes your hands softly. You know he’s right. You couldn’t stay here forever. You needed familiarity.

And closure.

But closure meant facing down Steve again. You try not to think about it as you pack your duffel. You take a shell Talia had given you a few days before. None of your clothes were suited for the New York winter, but you could get some things from the compound when you arrived. You wonder if Steve is still actively looking for you. Would he know when you landed? Or would he just be waiting at the compound for you? Would he even be there when you arrived? You spend most of your plane ride asleep, dreams of Bucky and Lily drifting in and out of your head. When you depart, JFK welcomes you with the familiar sounds of the city. You figure you’ll take a cab to a train station and go from there.

You’re not prepared, however, for the sight you see when you leave the boarding tunnel. Steve’s got a ball cap on, pulled low over his eyes, but there’s no mistaking him. You stop short, the person behind you running into you a bit.

“Hey, watch it!”

You mumble an apology and step to the side. The commotion is enough for Steve to look up and see you. He’s let his hair grow out a bit, beard in full bloom, and he looks a bit disheveled. Relief floods his expression when the pair of you make eye contact. Your malicious despise doesn’t rear it’s head like you thought it would. Instead, there’s a warm numbness reaching out into your limbs as you take leaded steps towards him. Neither of you says anything, but when he turns and begins to walk alongside you, you follow his lead. The air outside is cold against your thin long-sleeve, and Steve’s jacket is brushed over your shoulders to shield you. The car he helps you into is one of Tony’s from the compound. You chew your lip as he gets into the driver’s seat.

“I need some things from the compound,” you say softly. Steve just nods and starts driving. The two of you stay like this, the silence not heavy or uncomfortable. You shift under Steve’s jacket, bringing your left leg up to be folded under your right. Steve feels his fingers twitch on the wheel. The urge to rest his hand on your knee is nearly his undoing. He thinks on how to get you from the compound to the cabin. He could propose the idea at the compound and see how you react. It’s a logical and straight forward thing. It’d taken him ages to find the right abandoned warehouse. He’d considered going back to the facility in Siberia, but after pouring over the Hydra files over and over, it turns out what he needed had been in D.C. all along. The refrigeration unit was still functioning, just what he needed, and he’d taken such care in transporting everything back to the cabin.

Of course, there’s the possibility it wouldn’t take. What then? Steve knows he could offer himself to you. By the time they’d know Bucky didn’t take, you could be built up enough to give Steve a chance. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, how he’d revel in it if you let him have you. Steve shifts a bit in the driver’s seat, doing what he can to drive away his half-staff erection. The compound is eerily quiet. It doesn’t dawn on Steve you’re here to get things from your empty room until they’re pulling into the circle drive.

“Oh.”

You pause getting out of the car.

“Your things aren’t here.”

“What?”

“I moved them.”

“You what?! Why?!”

“Well, I-“

“It’s not enough all the shit you’ve put me through and now you’ve put my personal belongings into storage?”

“No, no it’s-it’s not like that. See, I was-I mean, well, I built this house and your things are there, because I-I just wanted-I have this idea, for you, as a way of apologizing, and your stuff needs to be there for it-“

“An idea?”

“Yes.”

“And what idea is that, exactly?”


	25. Chapter 25

You’d listened patiently as Steve spoke. He believed this would be his redemption, selfishly creating this house in the mountains, this prison more like, for you to have this baby in. He’d showed you his research, the months spent looking at Hydra’s genetics programs. He’d presented you with a vial of blue sludge and you held it carefully in your hands.

“You can make a child from this?”

He nods solemnly.

“It’s got DNA from Bucky in it. They used it on women to try and breed a family of soldiers.”

“And you found it just sitting in a warehouse in Washington?”

He nods again. You stare at the sludge. It’s the only living if it counted as living, material left of Bucky in the entire world.

And you have it in your hands, at your disposal.

“And if I don’t want it?”

Steve paused. He hadn’t really considered that possibility.

“Then, I guess we move your stuff back to the compound.”

It wouldn’t be that simple, not after all the work he’s put into the house. You let the vial rest in your palm, running your index finger along the lid.

“What if I want it without your help?”

Steve stiffens a bit.

“I can’t stop you from denying my help,” he grits through his teeth, “but, I think things would go better if you were nearby. Friday has everything put together at the cabin, and here at the compound if we need a better med bay.”

“There’s a med bay at the house?”

“I just wanted to be prepared for everything.”

You pause again. This is his selfish idea, and by accepting, you know you’d be validating it. It’s all for Steve because he’d be providing for the baby, for you, which is what he’s wanted since the snap.

“Can I have some time to think?”

“Of course.”

“Can...Can I see the house?”

You try not to grimace at the way his eyes light up. Steve tries to hide his enthusiasm as much as he can as he calls on Friday to pull up the model. He jabbers at you about the safety features and the views. You look carefully at the house. Only two doors out. A basement medical bay. You notice the data on biometric scans at each exterior door.

“Why biometrics?”

You interrupt Steve while he’s on a spiel about the dimensions of the nursery he’d put together.

“I wanted something that would keep you safest. You can allow people in or keep people out.”

_Or in._

Steve senses your hesitation.

“Listen, there are still people out there who would love nothing more than to use Bucky’s bloodline to create another Winter Soldier, or an army of them, for that matter. Every reinforcement, every safety feature, it’s all to make sure you and this baby would be kept safe from them.”

“What if we want to be safe from someone closer?”

He knows what you’re asking, and he knows the system is already set to allow him access to everything. He doesn’t want to lie, but if it makes you take this chance, he’ll have to.

“If that’s what you want, then so be it.”

It’s a lie. The whole thing creates a nauseous pit in your stomach.

“If I agree to go to the house with you, _just to look around_ , can you promise me you’ll let me leave of my own accord?”

Steve looks you in the eye. He sees your fear, and the pain on your face breaks something in his chest a little bit. He knows Bucky would want you safe, would want his child safe, and if Steve can do that it would be a small way of repaying everything Bucky had done for him. He knows you’ll hate him at first when he locks you in the house. Once you have the baby to think of, your anger will fade.

“Steve?”

It’s a plea.

“Of course. I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to.”

***

You fall asleep on the way to the house. Steve figures the sleeping pill he slipped you would keep you down until he’d gotten you into the house. He rests his hand on your knee, rubbing his thumb along it a bit. It felt so right as if you were his, and he knows this wouldn’t be true for a long while. You had to accept him first and who knows how long that would take. He had time. You don’t stir when the car rumbles onto the gravel and dirt, or when he turns the car off. He considers waking you, but figures it’ll be easier to get you inside if you’re asleep. He circles to the passenger side, carefully unbuckling you and lifting you from the seat. You mumble a bit, but don’t open your eyes, and Steve breathes a sigh of relief. Your head naturally falls against his shoulder and he’s thrown into the memory of carrying you from the Hydra facility. You’d been so frail; he’d been afraid one wrong move would break something. He’d handed you off to Bucky, a mistake, he now realized, and gone back to beat his fists into Rumlow. When he’s shaken himself from his memories, he’s standing in the living room. He doesn’t want to stop holding you, but he knows you’ll be more difficult if you wake in his arms. He takes you upstairs, setting you as gently as he can onto your bed. He wants you to wake up somewhere familiar. You’ll be more cooperative that way, he reasons, but he’s not sure he really believes the words. He covers you in a blanket and lets his knuckles brush across your cheek. You murmur, turning your face towards the touch.

“B-uh-ck-y.”

Steve sighs. You’re dreaming, and there’s nothing he can do to make the dream about him. He forces himself to leave the room, running diagnostics on the biometrics before going to the den to sit. He’s tense, and why shouldn’t he be? This is the moment he’d been waiting months for. You’re here, safe, and just within his reach. He wrings his hands and leans forward, elbows on his knees. He sends a prayer out to anyone who will listen.

_Please. Please. Please._

***

You’re woken by the smell of cinnamon and vanilla. There’s faint light coming through the window. You blink. You’re in your room at the compound.

No, not at the compound. At the cabin.

Your head hurts a bit, pain thudding dully behind your eyes. You blink a bit more and sit up. The bed creaks as you kick your legs over the edge. Downstairs, Steve tenses at the sound. You’ve been asleep for just shy of an hour and Steve hasn’t moved from his chair in the den the entire time. Your soft footsteps pad down the hall to the nursery above the den. You’ve stopped short in the doorway.

You’re stunned at the nursery. Soft yellows and white cover every surface. Centered on the top of the dresser there's a photo of you, Bucky, and Lily from your wedding day. The little yellow hat sits next to it. You take it from its spot, running your fingertips over the yarn. The memory of Bucky’s arms around your waist, hugging you from behind as you stand in the doorway of Lily’s room knocks the breath from your chest. A sharp inhale gives way to tears pricking the corners of your eyes. You wipe them away.

“Are you alright?”

Steve’s voice makes you jump, the little hat crumpling in your grip as your body tenses.

“Fine.”

Your voice wobbles slightly. You set the hat back next to the photo roughly, brushing past Steve to leave the nursery behind.

“Do you like it? I can change it if you don’t.”

“It’s nice.”

It’s not the answer he wants, but he doesn’t push you. You wander the house, coming to rest in the kitchen, sitting on one of the barstools at the island. Steve’s tentative about his approach. You turn to him as he comes closer.

“I do like the nursery.”

You hate the way he perks up at your words.

“And the house. The windows let in so much light.”

“I wanted you to be able to see the trees. The view is better in the fall, when the leaves are changing, but-“

You tune out the rest of his words. He’s rambling, setting your teeth on edge.

“You said there’s a medical suite.”

He stops his spiel, hands lowering from his animated gesturing.

“Yeah, I-are you wanting to see it?”

You hop off the barstool, ready to follow his lead. The door is somewhat hidden, tucked away under the stairs. It opens to a set of five steps, leading you down into a blindingly white medical suite.

“There’s everything we need here to monitor the baby. Friday has scans ready to go and if we need help there’s-“

“If _I_ need help.”

“Yes, right, if…if you need help, there’s a direct line to the compound medical staff. They can be here in practically no time.”

You rest your hand on the bed. This was your moment to decide. You can see Bucky’s vial on a tray to the side of the bed.

“I-I think I still need some time to…to think.”

“Take as long as you need.”

He’s feeling entitled to your answer.

“I want to go back to the city for a little bit.”

Steve’s expression changes immediately.

“Why?”

“I just do.”

Neither of you moves for a second. Steve sighs. When you push past him, he catches your wrist. It’s a soft hold, meant as no threat. His eyes meet yours and seem to plead.

_Don’t go._

You pull yourself away from him, turning to the door out to the deck. Steve is out the door first. You’re following close behind when he whirls, slamming the door in your face. You jump back, startled. His expression is pained as you look at him quizzically. When you go to turn the handle, it doesn’t budge. The scanner beeps at you, flashing red under your thumb, and you pull your hand back. You try again, slower this time, because you don’t believe it’s actually happening.

He can’t.

You try again, wiggling the handle more frantically now, the entire door beginning to rattle. Steve stands on the other side of the glass, grimacing as you struggle. You begin to beat your fist on the glass.

“Steve! Steve, open it! Open the door!”

He shakes his head slowly, turning away towards the car.

No.

No, no, no.

“You can’t leave me here!”

He looks back before getting into the car. He shakes his head slightly, disappearing into the driver’s seat.

“You promised!”

You know he can’t hear you, but you scream anyway. The car pulls out of sight and you can vaguely hear gravel crunching under the tires. You sink against the door, hugging your knees and rocking back until your resting on the floor. You expected tears, but none come. The same warm numbness from the airport creeps in, keeping you in a dazed state on the floor as the sky fades to black.

“Friday, turn off all the lights.”

You stay in the dark like this, stars winking down at you through the windows. Great glass prison bars are what they were, and Steve knew it when he’d brought you here. You’d asked him to bring you here, given him the opportunity, and you cursed at your stupidity. Of course, he’d never let you leave. Not when you were considering the baby, not when he could keep an eye on you, have you within arm’s length. Have you…have you any way he wanted, really. No one was around to stop him, and you wondered if you still held the strength to stop him. You wanted to think you did, wanted to believe you’d held onto your moxie despite taking it easy for so long, but you weren’t sure. You didn’t want him to test you. Worse, you didn’t want to fail if he did.

You find yourself rising, wandering haphazardly throughout the house. The door to his bedroom is locked with the same bio-scanner as the doors downstairs. You find the den, running your fingers along the book spines. You tilt one, letting it fall from the shelf with a thud. You do the same to the one next to it, and the one next to that one. You continue until the entire middle shelf sits in a pile on the floor. You pause, looking at the pile. A manic giddiness fills you at the sight. You pull books from the top shelf now, tossing them over your shoulder. When the shelves are totally empty, you look to the fireplace. A large globe sits on the mantle. You push it ever so slightly with your finger, watching it fall against the hearth and roll across the floor. You float to the kitchen, looking at the counter full of gadgets. The toaster goes to the floor first with a crash, the blender following it with a shatter. You let the glass crunch under your feet, ignoring the pain as the splintered glass stabs into your heels. Your overturn every drawer onto the floor, pull plates from the cabinets, and slam them onto the tile. Each sound of destruction is music to your ears. You light every candle you can find, letting their wax drip onto the couch cushions and blankets. Everything so carefully placed by Steve is cast into the chaos.

When you drift back upstairs, you take a hammer you found with you, banging it into the wood of the door. You leave the head of the hammer lodged in the door before turning to retreat down the hallway. You sag against the nursery doorframe. The little yellow hat looks up at you, begging for humanity to prevail as you consider the havoc you could wreak on the room. You take the hat in your hand, going to your room, and sinking against the wall just inside the door. Tears stream down your cheeks, great sobs wrenching themselves from your chest as you try to heave in breaths.

Steve watches you through his tablet screen. He flicks through the other camera views. You’ve destroyed everything on the bottom floor. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He never wanted you to react this way. Would you even consider the baby now? Could he ask you to? He’d return in the morning, assess the damage, and start again.

He had to get you to cooperate. 


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicidal ideation  
> This chapter is slightly shorter than some others, but I'll make the next one longer to make up for it.

Steve returns to the cabin the next morning, surveying the damage. If you know he’s there, you don’t acknowledge him. You stay sequestered away in your room, listening to the clatter downstairs as Steve cleans up the broken items and puts other things back in their drawers. Once he’s finished, he goes to the den, smoothing the bent pages of the books before returning them to the shelf. The mess of wax you’ve strewn across the floor and couches is cleaned too, with difficulty. It takes him hours, and when you still haven’t come down from your tower, Steve decides a bit of pushing is in order.

You’re awake when he opens the door, laying on your side over the comforter, staring blankly at the wall. Your eyes flit to his figure but return to the wall quickly.

“I need to get the glass out of your foot.”

You don’t move or respond.

“I’m going to carry you, so you don’t agitate it further.

Your eyes move to him again, but you still don’t move or respond. Steve moves towards you, gently dipping his hands under your body and lifting you off the bed. You murmur in disapproval but say nothing. When he sets you on the med bay bed, you thump back into the pillow, looking at the ceiling with the same blank stare. Your face twitches a bit as he picks the glass from your feet, but you don’t make a sound. Steve runs a wet cloth over the cuts, wiping away the dried blood. You’re no longer bleeding, but it can’t be painless to walk.

“You need to eat something.”

No answer. You don’t even blink.

“Do you want anything in particular?”

Nothing. Steve sighs, lifting you again. He sets you on the sectional and hands you the remote. You let it fall from your hand onto the cushion beside you. He leaves you then, going into the kitchen and starting on food. It’s been at least a day since you’ve eaten, and you need something filling. Half an hour later, he hands you a bowl of spaghetti. You look down at the bowl, but don’t pick up the fork.

“You need to eat something,” Steve repeats, more desperate this time. You look directly at him for the first time, eyes full of anger, but your expression is still empty.

“Don’t make me feed you.”

You look back at the bowl, hand moving up to the fork. It shakes as you lift the noodles to your mouth, but you chew and swallow a few bites.

“Don’t go too fast, I don’t want you to get sick.”

You give a slight nod, a sign of life, and Steve breathes a small sigh of relief. He goes back to the kitchen, cleaning up the pots and pans. When he turns back, you’ve come to sit at the island. You don’t say anything, don’t look at him, but you also don’t shy away when he comes to sit next to you. Only the sound of eating falls between you, but Steve chooses to take it as a good sign. When you’ve finished, you wobble on the balls of your feet towards the stairs.

“Let me help you.”

You pause.

“Please.”

You wait for him to come closer, lifting you slightly onto the bottom stair and guiding you up the rest. You reach your bed and return to the same position you’d been in on your side, gaze cast at the wall. He needs to go back to the Compound, keep up appearances, but to leave you like this physically pains him.

“I need to go for a bit.”

You don’t spare him a glance.

“You should stay off your feet, so they can heal.”

You respond by turning over to face away from him.

“Right,” he mutters, heading out to the car. He rests his forehead against the steering wheel for a minute before heading out to the road. He won’t visit with the car again. It’ll be easier to use one of the jets, faster too, and if you were to get outside, the jet would be harder to take off in. Steve figures it’s best to leave you on your own for a bit. You need time to adjust, and he needs to be patient, Steve reminds himself.

***

Hunger claws in the pit of your stomach. Steve hasn’t returned and you’re not sure what time it is. It’s getting dark out, the sun just peeking above the horizon through the trees. Their skeleton branches tap against the window.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

You should get up.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

You could stay here.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

You’ve nearly starved before, maybe you could do it again. Be successful this time.

_Tap. Tap. Tap_

The tapping is interrupted by a rumbling from nearby. You recognize the sound and perk up a bit. Stumbling on your sore feet, you’re down the stairs and plastered against one of the windows. The jet lands in a clearing a ways from the house, clipping a couple of trees in the process. Maybe it’s Natasha, come from on high to save you, your guardian angel through and through. You see a figure approaching the house as the lights from the jet click off. Too broad and tall to be Natasha. You sink down onto the corner of the sectional. You feel your lip quiver a bit but resolve not to cry in front of him again.

Steve’s pleased to see you standing at the window. Of course, you slink away to thump down onto the couch, visibly displeased at the sight of him. Steve tries not to take too much offense. You’re wearing the same dress from the airport, meaning you haven’t done anything since he left, which means you haven't eaten. You don’t look at him when the scanner chirps approval to let him into the house. He’s through the door quickly, not wanting to give you a chance to slip out.

“Hey,” he says softly, reaching out a bit. His hand meets the top of your head, your hair soft under his fingers. You jerk away as if his touch has burned you, standing shakily and wobbling your way to the stairs. You’re in pain, there’s no denying it.

“Let me look at your feet.”

“Don’t touch me,” you hiss at him, but there’s no malice in your voice. You’re too tired to fight with him and too weak from hunger to retaliate when he lifts you off the stairs. He swings your legs up with his arm, carrying you bridal style to the medical suite downstairs. Steve’s as gentle as he can be when he sets you onto the bed, taking your left heel into the palm of his hand. The cuts are red and angry. He goes to the cabinet on the wall, pressing his hand against the scanner and waiting for it to beep. He takes down a topical pain med and ace bandages, returning to you and applying them with care.

“This should help.”

You’re able to walk on your own with less pain. You stand and go to the counter next to the cabinet, taking the vial of blue sludge from its little holder.

“Have you given it any more thought?”

Steve’s words fall on deaf ears. You watch the sludge slide about as you move the vial in your hand. You set it back in the holder and go up into the kitchen. Steve follows, watching as you head for the stairs again.

“You need to eat.”

“How do you know I haven’t eaten?”

“You’re shaking like a leaf and you can barely keep your head up.”

You look from the top of the stairs to him, and back, hand resting on the banister. You don’t say anything, just start climbing the steps. He sighs, shaking his head slightly, and following you. He takes the steps two at a time, coming to stand between you and the top.

“You’re gonna starve yourself then, that’s the grand plan?”

You try to brush past him, but Steve catches you by the arm.

“I’m trying to help.”

Your nose scrunches as you glower up at him.

“Then let me leave.”

Your voice wavers a bit.

“You’re safer here than out there.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Don’t make me force-feed you.”

You narrow your eyes at him, jerking your arm, trying to get away from him. Steve grip holds, and he stands up a little straighter. You forget just how much bigger than you he is. You don’t have a knife on you, your head is swimming from hunger, and Steve’s stronger.

“I’m going to give you twenty minutes. Go clean up, change into some clean clothes, and in the meantime, I’m going to make you something to eat.”

When you don’t move immediately, Steve’s grip on your arm tightens painfully.

“Don’t be difficult.”

He releases you finally and you rub your bicep, recalling a time when his grip in the same spot had bruised you. He’s no different now than he was in the hangar, degrading you for rejecting him. Bucky isn’t here now to deter him. Natasha isn’t here to help you get away from him.

It’s just you. Alone.

***

Steve stays for three days, monitoring you closely to make sure you’re eating. When he leaves, he locks away the kitchen knives and any other sharp thing he can find. He doesn’t trust you enough to leave them out. He sits you down on the couch as he preps to go.

“I’ve got a couple of cameras posted around the house. I’ll be checking in while I’m gone. Please eat. I don’t want to force you to stay in the med bay, but I will if you don’t take care of yourself.”

The look on your face is sour.

“Is that all?”

Steve breathes hard through this nose. You’re being difficult on purpose, not caring if it gets a rise out of him or not. He kneels in front of you, taking your hands into his. You recoil, but he only holds tighter.

“I’m serious. I’ll put restraints on that bed, and I’ll give you a feeding tube and IV. I don’t want to, but I will if you make me.”

He gives your hands a tight squeeze before he lets go. You know better than to try to follow him to the door. He’d had to go out for firewood the day before and when you followed close behind him, you’d been met with a hand on your upper arm and a shove back onto the couch. He’d been livid, taking it out on the stacks of logs outside.

The jet lifts off with a rumble, the trees shaking in its wake, and disappears into the sky. You don’t move for a while, staying slumped against the couch cushions until you can’t stand to sit still any longer. Steve’s left his room door open and you poke your head into it. The room smells like his cologne and it makes you want to gag a bit. After a while, you find yourself in the den, picking through the books. You take one down and sink into the plush armchair, beginning to read.

Steve watches you on the monitor, sighing with relief. He’d half expected you to destroy the house again the moment he’d left, but there you were, peacefully reading. It only takes him an hour to get to the compound in the jet, and when he arrives back, Friday alerts him.

“Captain Rogers, Agent Romanoff is waiting for you in conference room 231.”

 _Shit_.


	27. Chapter 27

He considered lying to her, but the thought disappears at the look on Nat’s face. She’s alone, blonde hair giving way to red roots, and a beat-up duffel at her feet. Arms crossed, glowering at him, tapping one of her fingers. Half an hour later, she’s watching you through a monitor, dozing on the couch with a book sliding off your lap.

“She hasn’t agreed to this.”

“She’s safer out there, and if she decides on having a baby, they’ll both be protected.”

Nat makes a face.

“And if she doesn’t? You can’t keep her there for the rest of her life, Steve!”

“I won’t-“

“I’m not finished. Even if you keep her there, and even if she develops some Stockholm syndrome feelings for you, because I know that’s what you want, it’ll never be the same. She has always and will always love James first. You can’t stop her or make it go away. You’ll be playing second to him until the end of your days when it comes to her. So, tell me, at what point does your need for her validation stop outweighing her need for healing?”

“Are you going to go get her?”

Nat doesn’t answer at first. She falls into one of the chairs and rests her forehead against her palms.

“I’m tired and I need to think.”

Steve turns to leave.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t get Barton to come back.”

“I never found him.”

This makes Steve pause, but he decides against asking more questions. He resists the urge to fly back to the cabin. With her failure in finding Barton, Nat might leave you, just check in now and then through Steve. Ever hard to read, Steve isn’t sure how to handle the possibilities. He stays at the compound for the night but doesn’t sleep. Staring at the ceiling, he rests his hand behind his head, imagining you asleep against his chest. He’d pet your hair, maybe you’d stir a bit, looking up at him half-awake. He’d kiss your forehead and you’d smile softly before snuggling down against him. The side of your face would press over his heartbeat, the dull thud lulling you back to sleep.

Steve breaks the daydream by rolling on his side, pulling one of his pillows against him to mimic you. If he does sleep, it doesn’t feel like it. The sun pokes over the horizon, flooding the room with streaks of light through the slits of the blinds. He rouses just enough to notice Nat leaning in the doorway of his bedroom. She offers him a mug of coffee, full of creamer just how he likes, and he sits on the edge of the bed to await her verdict.

“She doesn’t want to be there.”

He takes a sip in response.

“However, if she decides to have a baby, I think keeping her out of sight is a good idea. You and I both know what Hydra would do to get James’ DNA. When she decides, tell me, and if she wants to leave, I’ll go get her, if you don’t bring her back. I want access to the cameras, all of them.”

Steve nods along, finishing off the coffee. He leads her to his laptop, putting together a flash drive for her. He leaves out the bedroom cameras, because why would she need them? She grips the flash drive tightly, turning to go.

“One more thing.”

“Name it.”

“Don’t tell her I’m back. Not yet.”

***

Steve leaves you on your own for two weeks. You find yourself baking to pass the time, doing what you can to perfect your puff pastry and brioche techniques. You’re expecting the jet again, but Steve brings his motorcycle instead. He drops a knapsack-type bag on the couch and comes to stand at your side. You’re adding some raisins to a honey-bread dough, kneading gently.

“I didn’t know you could make bread.”

“I worked at a bakery while I lived on Crete.”

A beat of silence.

“There are croissants over there if…if you want one.”

Steve’s surprised at how good they taste. He takes two from the bowl and retrieves something from his bag. He sets it on the counter and slides it towards you.

“I got you something.”

The bottle comes to a stop by your hand, clattering a bit. **Folic Acid** , the label proclaims, staring up at you. You wipe your hands on a towel, picking the bottle up gingerly as if it’ll explode.

“It’s for-“

“I know what it’s for,” you snap at him. Steve makes a disgruntled face but says nothing.

“I’ve had a baby before, in case you’ve forgotten.”

_How could he forget?_

“I also haven’t decided if I’m going to have another.”

“I know, I thought I’d bring them just in case.”

You set the bottle aside and return to your bread. Steve doesn’t stay for more than a couple of hours. He figures leaving you on your own for an extended time would make you more likely to welcome his returns. Though, he supposes his absence could also fuel more distrust and negativity as well. A 50/50 shot. AS he goes to leave, you stand in his way.

“What did you do with Bucky’s knife?”

“I put it away. I don’t trust you not to hurt yourself.”

“What if I need to defend myself?”

You cross your arms and cock one of your hips to the side. Steve sighs. He doesn’t like you having access to sharp things after the incident with the pills at the compound.

“Would it help you trust me more if I gave it back to you?”

You narrow your eyes at him, considering the question.

“It might,” you finally bite out. A sigh of resignation and Steve heads off to the locked cabinet in the med bay. He takes down the knife and the holster, handing them to you.

“Are the rest of my knives in there as well?”

“No, I took them out of your bag before we left the compound.”

“Then why lock it?”

He pauses as the lock on the door clicks.

“There’s medicine in there I don’t want you to have. I don’t want you trying to hurt yourself again. I can’t-“ He pauses, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. “It’s safer for you if I lock it.”

He expects you to argue further, but you’re silent as you put the holster around your waist and thigh. You look calmer as you slide the knife into its slot. Steve feels a bit of tension as he turns his back on you to leave. He preps himself to block a lunge with the knife, but it doesn’t come. Instead, you go into the kitchen and check on your bread dough. Deciding it’s ready, you begin to put it into a loaf pan. As he pulls away, the engine roaring in his ears, he looks up to see you standing at the window. You put your hand up, not quite a wave, but the gesture still makes his heart soar.

You sleep better that night, Bucky’s knife tucked under your head, ready for action should you need it. Of course, living in this house meant safety, but knowing it was there allowed you to drift off soundly. Steve sets a tablet by his bed, pulling up the feed of your room. You’re snoring softly, barely audible, and he can’t help the grin that splits his face. He sleeps well, doing the same the next night, and the next. After a week, he puts the feed on the flatscreen above his dresser. He considers returning but knows extending his time away will lead you to wish for some company more and more.

Two and half weeks into your time alone, you’re woken by a noise. A scream. You grab the knife and drop to the floor by the window. You poke your head up over the windowsill, the curtain crumpling atop your head as you look down to the ground. A hunched figure moves through the trees, stopping at the deck steps. You know they’ll be able to see into the house through the wall of windows.

Curse Steve’s desire for natural light.

You slip out your door, careful to stay in the shadows. There’s no easy way down the stairs, moonlight illuminating them. If you drop from the landing railing onto the floor below, you could break something. You grab the ottoman from the nursery, standing on it and tapping on the camera.

“Steve!”

You don’t even know if he’s got the feed pulled up.

“Steve!”

Louder this time, your voice is audible from the bedroom camera. Steve pops an eye open, rolling onto his back and looking up at the tv. Your quilt is pulled back, and it takes him a moment to flip through the cameras to see you. Your eyes are wide as you stand on…a chair? No, the little stool from the nursery. He blinks and squints at your face.

“Steve! I don’t know if you’re watching or not. I think there’s someone outside.”

The strange scream echoes around the house again. Steve hears it this time, and is in the living room, pulling his laptop open in a flash. He scans through the outdoor cameras, seeing nothing.

“Down by the deck,” your voice whispers. It’s got just the slightest hint of a frightened tremble. He goes to the deck cam again and he resists the urge to laugh. You slink to the top of the stairs and peer down at the deck. The figure is hunched just outside the door.

“Go down and take a look.”

Steve’s voice startles you and you yelp, jumping a bit.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Go.”

Another strangled scream erupts from the dark splotch.

“Do you hear that?”

“Yes, now go down and look at it. Move slowly. I’ll turn on the deck lights in a minute.”

“You’re insane.”

“Just trust me for a minute.”

You throw a scathing look at him through the cam but begin to go down the steps slowly. You’re crouching, peeking up over the end of the couch opposite the door. You crawl around the back of the couch, pulling the knife up close to your chest. Steve can’t help but snort out a laugh at your stealth. You peer around the corner, almost laying on the ground, trying to discern exactly what eldritch horror has chosen to haunt you. Another scream erupts from its snout, a bushy tail flicking about as it crouches. You rise slowly, your knife poised carefully.

_It can’t get in. It can’t get in. It can’t get in._

The deck is suddenly flooded with light. Orange fur whirls wildly as you let the knife fall to your side numbly. You and the fox stare at each other for a moment before it skitters off the deck, disappearing into the night.

“Are you alright?”

Steve’s voice mocks you. He doesn’t intend to, but you shoot a look over your shoulder.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“ _Shut_. _Up_.”

You stomp back up the stairs, shoving Buck’s knife under your pillow, and throwing the quilt up over your head. Steve makes sure the mic is off before letting out a bellowing laugh. He goes back to his bed and lays down, drifting off with a grin on his face.

***

He leaves you another week before returning. You won’t say you missed him, but shortly after he arrives, you quietly offer him a glimmer of affection.

“This house can feel very empty when you’re here alone.”

“Well, when you have the terrible foxes waiting to attack outside, I imagine it can feel very lonely.”

You throw one of the couch pillows at his head.

“I told you to shut up about that.”

Steve sniggers to himself, tossing the pillow back to you. It’s an almost friendly interaction.

“I’m sorry to leave you for so long, I’ve had some missions.”

He expects you to question the explanation, but you go back to the book in your lap instead. Steve gets a second moment with you later that night. He’s settling into sleep when he hears it. A whine, pained, coming from your room. Your door is slightly ajar, and when Steve looks in, you're turning a bit in your sleep. You kick one of your legs out and it catches in the comforter. Your arm is caught too, and you fight with it a bit, grumbling and murmuring.

“Lil.”

A breathy cry. You’re dreaming, maybe a nightmare, and when Steve opens the door a little more, it creaks enough to jerk you awake. You sit up immediately, looking around wildly. When you finally look at him, you start a bit, and grab at the blanket, pulling it up to your chest.

“I was just checking on you. You were…you sounded upset.”

“I…I’m f-fine.”

You’re trembling, and your voice trembles with you. Torn between staying put and going to sit on the end of the bed, Steve doesn’t want to push your shifting boundaries too far.

“You don’t sound fine. You’re shaking.”

You draw your knees up to your chest and hug them tightly.

“When Lily was born, I almost gave her up. I thought I couldn’t do it by myself, and then when they let me hold her the first time I thought, “I’ll never let you out of arms reach.” And now…now she’s gone, and I don’t know that I’ll ever get her back. I know you’re not a parent, and I don’t know if you ever plan to be one, but I hope you get to experience that feeling.”

Uncertain what spurred you on, Steve stands in the doorway a bit dumbfounded.

“Thanks for checking on me.”

“Yeah...yeah, of course.”

You lay back down and turn towards the window. Steve doesn’t sleep. The next morning you’re out of bed before him, and when the smell of bacon wafts into his room, Steve pokes his head out to look down at the kitchen. You’re flitting around, bacon and eggs in a pan, some sort of batter in a bowl on the counter. Steve pulls on a shirt and pads down to sit on one of the barstools.

“You have enough for me?”

You set a cup of coffee down for him, followed a few minutes later by a full plate. It’s waffles, golden and delicious. When you sit next to him, you pause before eating. Steve tries not to smile when he hears the clatter of the vitamin bottle. You say nothing, just shake a pill into your palm and wash it down with a swig of juice.

“You okay?”

You look at the plate in front of you, then up at him. The hint of a smile pulls at the corners of your mouth.

“Yeah, I’m okay.”


	28. Chapter 28

You’re reading on the couch when Steve starts to gather his things to leave.

“Do you have to go?”

The question is barely audible. You close your book a bit, looking up at him. Steve’s heart could break right there. He’s been back around a week, and you’ve been cordial the entire time.

“Are you wanting me to stay?”

Your nose wrinkles slightly. You didn’t mean it that way, did you?

“It’s just really empty here when I’m by myself.”

“I have some things I need to do at the compound and in the city.”

“I suppose it’s pointless to ask if I can come with you.”

“Don’t ask questions you know the answers to.”

There’s a sharpness about his tone which causes you to retreat against the couch cushion slightly. As he leaves, Steve can’t help but smile. His isolation strategy is working. He has nothing waiting for him at the compound but Nat’s judging glares. Popping into a meeting could do him some good. Maybe he can find something for you in the city, a gentle nudge in the direction of the vial sitting in the cabin med bay. You’re taking the vitamins, have been for about two weeks, but there’s always more steps to take towards Steve’s idea. Maybe a book would catch your attention.

A few days later, he’s stopping in a used bookstore. He’s got a ball cap pulled down low over a pair of sunglasses, but the woman behind the counter recognizes him.

“You-you’re Captain America.”

“I used to be.”

He can’t stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth. She turns pink and rings him up without another word. He’s found a book of baking techniques, handwritten scribbles adorning the sides of the recipes with helpful tips from the former owner. He thinks of stopping at a bakery but figures it’s silly to give a baker pastries. Instead, he finds a candy shop and gets you a box of dark chocolate. He’d read somewhere it’s good for pregnancy and if you don’t want to eat it, you can always mix it into something. When he returns to the cabin, you take the book from him and open it delicately. It’s got watercolor illustrations of leaves and strawberries along the edges of the pages. You run your finger along the line of decoration and smile, genuinely. You try the chocolate and smile again. Steve’s heart flutters a bit as you sit at the kitchen island, pouring over the book and picking off pieces of chocolate. A step in the right direction.

It’s late when you look at him from the couch, setting the book to the side, and turning to kneel on the couch cushion. Steve’s got his laptop out on the counter, looking over a mission briefing from Nat. She’d gone to Germany, checking up on a possible Hydra cell growing in Berlin. It had amounted to nothing, but he still had to sign off on the briefing.

“Steve?”

Voice small, almost scared. He turns to look at you, surprised at how wide your eyes are.

“Steve, if I agree with your plan, how long will I have to stay here?”

“Are you going to be angry with me if I don’t have an answer for you?”

“A child should be able to go outside if they want.”

Steve considers your words. You’re right, he knows it, but until that point, he doesn’t know what to say.

“You know I’m right.”

“Don’t.”

The same sharp tone. He expects you to back down, as you had been for a couple of weeks, but instead, you round the couch and stand over his shoulder.

“I want the baby.”

When he turns, your eyes bore into his.

“I don’t want to subject a baby to this prison. As pristine as it is, it’s still a prison.”

“We can go back to the compound after it’s born.”

It’s a stupid lie. By the time you’re giving birth, the house will feel more like home than anywhere else ever has. You won’t want to leave or take a baby anywhere else. You squint at him a bit.

“If you’re lying to me, you know I’ll come after you.”

You rest your hand on Buck’s knife, but don’t take it out. It’s a warning, deadly serious, and Steve glances down at your twitching fingers. The tension, the silence, between the pair of you ends when he sighs. He puts his hands up in a sign of surrender.

“Okay, doll, you win.”

“Don’t call me that.”

The sharp tip of the dagger is suddenly pressing into his Adam’s apple.

“Never, ever, call me that! You hear me?”

Your voice shakes and your hand trembles. Steve takes the knife from your grasp and slides it back into its holster.

“I didn’t mean anything by it.”

You whirl on the spot and head for the stairs.

_Damn it. Couldn’t reign it in, could you Rogers? Stupid._

You don’t come back downstairs until early the next morning. The sunrise floods through the wall of windows and Steve blinks at the brightness. There’s noise below him, in the med bay, and when he peers in, you’re sitting on the floor by the counter. You’ve got Buck’s vial clutched in your palm, tears flowing freely and the occasional hiccupping sob rising from your chest.

You look up when he steps through the door, trying not to rush you as he kneels by your side.

“You really want it, huh?”

All you can do is sniffle and give a slight nod.

“Alright, I’ll get everything together.”

***

Two days later, one of the compound medical staff is poised in front of you with a syringe. Steve grimaces when it presses into you, watching your face screw up at the intrusion. You’d told him you didn’t care if he stayed or not, but when the needle presses in, you grab his arm tightly.

“You’ll be a bit sore from the needle, but that should disappear by tomorrow. It’ll be an entire cycle before we know for sure, and if it doesn’t take, we’ll try again.”

She pats your hand as she leaves. You move a bit, groaning softly at the discomfort in the pit of your stomach. Steve escorts the woman out as you make your way into the living room. Collapsing down on the couch, you pull a pillow into your lap and lean your head back.

“What can I do?”

Steve looms over you and you open one eye to look up at him.

“Some Tylenol would be grand.”

Steve returns with a bottle, some water, and your dark chocolate bar from his trip to the city.

“Anything else?”

“You don’t have to wait at my beck and call.”

“I know.”

You pause.

“My book would be nice. The one with the green cover? I think it’s on the mantle in the den I think.”

Steve moves with purpose and comes back to sit with you. You set to reading and Steve sits beside you in silence. After about twenty minutes, you close it slightly.

“Aren’t you bored?”

He blinks at you.

“Just sitting here?”

“I just want to be close by if you need something.”

“Steve.”

It’s a warning tone, almost motherly.

“You could read it to me.”

You laugh.

“What?”

“Buck used to read to me when I was sick. Helped pass the time and it made him better in school.”

“How often were sick?”

It’s Steve’s turn to laugh.

“More often than not.”

You think about his words.

“When was the worst?”

A bit taken aback; Steve has to think about an answer for a few minutes. 

“The winter after my ma died. I got a cold, and I had asthma, so it just spiraled. The cold turned to…bronchitis, I think? I ended up with pneumonia. Buck stayed home from work to watch me, basically lived with me after that. Anyway, he once said he was standing guard by my bed to fight death off with a stick,” he pauses, chuckling softly, “They gave me these medicinal cigarettes for my asthma. Can you believe that? We were then, the shit we put in our bodies and called medicine.”

“Did Bucky ever smoke?”

“Everyone smoked then, like a chimney. He tried it again after Shuri treated him, but he said the cigarettes weren’t the same. Sometimes, after a really hard mission, he’d have one in the hangar. Begged me not to tell you, ‘cause he knew you’d get on him about it.”

“I knew. I could smell it on him, but I could tell the mission was rough, so I never gave him any grief.”

A beat of silence falls comfortably between you.

“You want me to read to you?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

Steve doesn’t really listen to the words, just to the melody of your voice as it threads together the story. His eyes begin to droop a bit and he moves to lay with his head near your lap. You offer him the pillow you’ve been holding, and he smiles up at you sleepily. You continue reading as Steve drifts beside you and you finally stop when he snores loudly. You giggle at the noise.

It’s uneasy, this familiarity you’ve been building with him, and you’ve been trying to run away from the thoughts about it. You set the book aside and slipped from the couch, careful not to disturb Steve’s slumber. You stood at the door, resting a palm against the glass. It was cool to the touch, a reflection of the chill outside, and you press your forehead against the barrier. Steve snorts on the couch, and you start a bit. He doesn’t wake, though, and you go back to your gazing longingly at the horizon. The sky is slowly filling with grey clouds, a few darker than others, and you decide it’s good weather for soup.

When Steve starts awake on the couch, he’s greeted by the smell of roasting tomatoes and the pitter of rain against the windows.

“It looks like a storm is coming in.”

You’re stirring something on the stove, and when he comes up behind you, one of his hands ghosts along your hip. You tense a bit and slide out of his reach, bringing bowls down from the cabinet. Steve notices, coming up behind you again and reaching beside your head to grab a couple of glasses. Caged against the counter, you cower a bit, fingers dancing to your thigh defensively.

“Don’t do that,” he warns, turning with the glasses to get something out of the fridge. You go back to the stove, stirring the soup and mumbling curses his way. Thunder rumbles in the distance, causing you to throw a worried look over your shoulder.

“We’re safe in here.”

“I know that,” you snap, wiping your hands on a towel and bringing a small loaf of bread out of the oven. It’s garlic, from the smell of it, and you slice it while it’s still hot, sprinkling cheese over the top of the slices.

“Not afraid of a bit of thunder,” you mutter, a reassurance to yourself more than a retort to him.

“It’s alright if you are,” Steve offers gently. You scowl into the soup and reach for a ladle.

“Stop it, you’ll make it sour.”

He sweeps you aside, ladling the soup out into the bowls and setting them on the counter. You mumble something, probably another curse, before taking the bowl. You dunk your bread forcefully, causing the soup to splash onto the counter.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say something’s bothering you,” Steve says coolly, setting a cup of juice in front of you.

“I’m not a child. You don’t need to reassure me all the time.”

You stab at the soup with your spoon. You’re just annoyed, letting the feeling fester just below the surface, and Steve raises an amused eyebrow.

“Are you going to be like this through the pregnancy? Should I prepare for a barrage of insults and smart remarks?”

He finds you entertaining, chuckling softly as he sits next to you.

“I’ll gut you and not even blink.”

It’s an empty threat, devoid of any malice, and Steve pokes at your side.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

You brandish Buck’s knife, pointing the tip at him for emphasis.

“Doubt you even remember how to use that thing after your vacation in Cyprus.”

“It was Crete and I remember _exactly_ how to use it.”

Steve smirks as he goads you.

“So, this is how you’re going to be then?”

“Yes.”

You keep the knife in your hand, using the other to spoon soup into your mouth haphazardly.

“Good grief, I don’t know how I’ll deal.”

“You can always leave me here.”

“Pregnant and alone? Sounds like a horrible reality show.”

You bite back a laugh at that.

“Put that away and eat your soup, silly girl.”

Steve shakes his head and goes back to his own bowl. You don’t move for a moment, then, slowly, the knife lowers to your lap. You holster it and finish your soup.

Another step in the right direction.

***

It’s been raining for three days. You’ve watched the sky turn from grey to black as night fell, but no stars get the chance to peek through the dense cloud cover. Rain thrashes against the windows as Steve retires to his room. You hug your knees and watch lightning split the sky, the jagged outline of the trees framing your view. You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting there when the particularly loud crack comes down, seeming to shake all existence. The light over the stove flickers.

You rise to look at it, watching as another crack creates another flicker. It’s the only light on downstairs, casting eerie shadows across the island.

Another flicker as the cabin’s power struggles against the storm.

Steve’s snores stop as the cabin hums loudly before the kitchen light goes out. You don’t move, though your eyes dart to the red light blinking on the door handle.

_It’s so easy._

You’re stepping towards the door.

_Just reach out._

A confused call of your name from the top of the stairs.

You hesitate. In the dark, you could almost trade his voice for Bucky’s.

Rain batters the glass.

Footsteps behind you.

Your hand rests on the door handle. It clicks as it opens. The wind catches the door and it bangs open against the window next to it.

Another call of your name. Closer now, only a few feet away.

You turn to look at him, hand lingering in the air where the door handle had been.

Wide eyes plead with you not to step out into the rain.

You tremble as lightning streaks across the sky, illuminating his face. You’re hesitating.

_Why are you hesitating?_

Your hand lowers and you take a half step back. Relief floods Steve’s face. You wobble a bit and fall onto the couch cushions. He passes behind you, one of his hands resting on top of your head. His fingers thread into your hair, petting for a moment before he goes somewhere out of your sight. Maybe thirty seconds later, the door beeps and the light in the kitchen comes back on.

_Why did you hesitate?_


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heyo.   
> Timeline update: This is the Christmas before the 5 yr anniversary (I think. I've mapped it out and I think that's right.)

It’s nearly time for you to take the first pregnancy test. Steve’s been gone a couple of weeks and despite your internal conflict over it, you find yourself looking up in the hopes of seeing someone approaching the house at every little noise. The wind rattles the bare trees against the house windows, and you feel increasingly small in the space. You hole up in your bedroom, letting the feeling of the quilt on your skin ground you, but you still find yourself drifting. You can’t look at the nursery without nausea, though maybe that’s a good sign. You wait for Steve to return, a bit on pins and needles, and when he does you’re vibrating with excitement over no longer being alone.

He brings a small pine tree in from the side of the house, setting it up by the fireplace.

“What’s that for?”

“It’s a Christmas tree.”

“Is it time for Christmas?”

“Nearly.”

You look at the grey skies, the skeleton trees, and back at the pine.

_Doesn’t feel like Christmas._

You hug the blanket on your shoulders a little tighter, rising to stand at the window. Steve pauses as he fiddles with the pine’s branches, seeing your shoulders droop as you sigh deeply. He comes up behind you, resting his hand on your shoulder gently. You flinch despite the soft touch.

“I can hear you thinking.”

“Hm.”

“Talk to me.”

You hesitate. Opening up to Steve is a double-edged sword, certainly, but it’d been so long since you’d had a real conversation with someone.

“I’m afraid it won’t work.”

“If it doesn’t the first time, we’ll try again.”

_We’ll try again._

_We._

“I’m afraid it will never work.”

“Don’t cross bridges before you come to them.”

You give a brief laugh.

“What, are you a fortune cookie now?”

“Hey, it’s sound advice. Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” he says, poking your side in jest. You flinch again. Steve softens, disappointed you’re still pulling away from him. 

“Come help me decorate this thing.”

An hour later, you’re both on the couch, basking in the glow of the lights on the tree. Red ornaments split the light into streaks, reflecting onto the floor and spreading out in every direction. Steve’s started a fire as well, the warmth flooding out across the couch. You’re curled up against the arm of the couch, eyes drooping a bit as the fireplace crackles.

“Hey, you hungry?”

“Hm?”

“I’m going to fix something.”

“Hm.”

Steve smiles down at your sleepy demeanor. When he returns from the kitchen to tell you food is ready, you’re draped over the arm of the couch, snoring lightly. Steve scoops you off the couch gently, your head lolling into his chest. He knows it’s the first peaceful sleep you’ve had in a while. He nudges a pillow over with his knee and lays you back down, cradling your head so it rests on the pillow. You stir a bit, but don’t wake. Steve pulls a blanket up over you. He pauses, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. Part of him hopes you’re awake enough to feel it, but he knows you’re not. He returns to the kitchen and sets your plate in the microwave.

You sleep for a couple of hours, waking with a start at the sound of the door to the deck banging shut. In a panic, you rocket up, whirling to see Steve with some firewood.

“I thought you left again.”

“No, I’m staying for a couple days.”

“Right…y-yeah. Sorry,” you mumble, falling back onto the couch in a heap. Steve sets the firewood aside and kneels next to you.

“Are you alright?”

You refuse to look at him. You glower at your lap instead, fiddling with the ends of the blanket. Steve reaches for your hand, but you shove him away.

“You keep leaving me here by myself.”

“I can’t take you with me.”

“You could.”

Steve rocks back to sit on the floor in front of you, sighing a little.

“I thought we were past this.”

There it is again. This “we” mentality, as if both of you were trying to regain the semblance of the family you’d lost. As if both of you were clinging to the last physical remnants of the one you love.

_Loved?_

_Love._

You retreat into yourself a bit at his words. Steve reaches again, pressing his thumb and forefinger to your chin to angle your face towards him. Soft eyes and a gentle expression dissolves some of your frustration.

“I’m tired of being alone here. You…you can’t..” you pause and swallow hard, tears springing to life, “I’ll need help when the baby is here, I’ll need help, and if you’re not here-“

“Friday will-“

“I need a real person here with me, Steve! Not a machine, a real living and breathing person!”

Your chest rises and falls with shallow breaths.

“I can’t-I can’t do it by myself, I can’t-I ca-“

You’re edging on hyperventilating and Steve moves to sit next to you. He shushes you and you find yourself being pulled into his lap, a hand coming up to smooth your hair.

“It’s alright. It’ll be alright. I need you to breathe, breathe normal, okay?”

You time your breaths to the beat of his heart in your ear. You’re still shaking. Steve holds you tightly and you find yourself relishing in the touch. It’d been so long since someone held you, touched you lovingly, like this. In the fog, you hear Steve’s voice, low, near your ear.

“Better?”

You nod, realizing you’ve got some of his shirt balled up in your fist. You let go suddenly, sheepishly smoothing the wrinkles. Steve shushes you again.

“Don’t worry about it.”

You can’t look at him. Your face is burning with…with _what_? You feel hot, too hot, and you move off his lap as delicately as you can. You wipe your eyes and pull at the bottom of your shirt a bit.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t…I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Like I said, don’t worry about it.”

You retreat up the stairs, casting a look over your shoulder before disappearing into your bedroom. Steve’s leaning back onto the couch, hands folded behind his head. He looks pleased and he is, ecstatic even. You’d tried to hide it, but he could feel the heat radiating off you, and he’d been fighting with himself to keep from prodding you in the ass. He wonders if it’s the most intimate moment you’ve had since the snap. Would you welcome more moments?

You stay up in your bedroom late into the night, but Steve knows you’re not sleeping. When he peers in through the cracked door, you’re sitting by the window, staring out into the dark. He knocks softly and you jump a bit.

“Just wanted to check in. You’ve been up here a while.”

You nod, but don’t give him any real answer.

“Are you hungry?”

“A little.”

“I’ve got a plate for you in the microwave.”

“Okay.”

You’ve changed into one of Buck’s shirts, a red Henley that hangs off you. Steve can hear Buck’s tags clinking together under the fabric as you pass him on your way downstairs. You eat silently, pulling out the tags to fiddle with them a bit.

“Would he want this?” You ask suddenly, eyes searching Steve’s face a bit franticly.

“What?”

“Would he want me to use…After everything they did to him, to take something _they_ took and use it. Would he want this? Or…or would he resent it? Would he resent the baby? Would he resent-“

“Stop. You’re hurting yourself thinking like that.”

“But would he? You knew him, how he felt about-about the Soldier. He never shared it with me, wanted to shield me from it, and I-“

“He would want you to do what you needed to do to be happy.”

It’s enough to satisfy your questions, for now. The next morning you wait on the edge of your bathtub, staring at the tests on the counter. Steve leans in the bathroom door, watching you bounce your knees and wring your hands.

“Don’t build yourself up. We don’t know it will take.”

“I know.”

You release a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding when Steve looks at his watch.

“Okay, should be ready.”

You take the tests off the counter with shaking hands. Despite Steve’s warning, despite knowing there are more chances, you’re crestfallen at the sight of the single lines. You blink away the tears and wipe your eyes furiously.

“We’ll try again.”

Steve’s statement is absolute and the hope it gives is enough to keep you from devolving into hysterics.

“Can you get someone here today?”

“I’ll try.”

Two hours later, you’re in the medical suite, feet up in the little stirrups. Steve holds your hand as the needle pinches in the pit of your stomach. When you squeeze at the pain, he gives a gentle squeeze back and murmurs soft praise.

“It’s almost over. You’re doing great, sugar.”

Your cheeks feel hot at the pet name. You think you might combust if you stay in the room longer than you have to. Steve’s too close, too…too _what_? Familiar? Intimate? The moment the woman leaves, you scramble out of the hospital gown and into sweats. You don’t want to have a shape right now, don’t want to be something for Steve to look at, don’t want to exist in a perceivable form. Your pelvis aches as you move around the kitchen, focusing your simmering emotions into a dough. You add honey and apple, kneading liberally. Steve melds into the background of your thought as you get lost in the pattern of kneading. That is, until a pair of hands ghost along your hips. He’s standing directly behind you, almost caging you against the counter, and your kneading slows.

“You should rest.”

His voice is low, rumbling a bit in your ear.

“I-I’m fine.”

You sway slightly, fingers drifting to your thigh. You meet nothing and realize your knife is upstairs.

“You don’t seem fine.”

He pauses.

“Set it aside to rise and go sit on the couch. I’ll put it in when the time comes.”

“I-“

“Go.”

Non-negotiable. Steve keeps his hand close to your hip, never truly resting on it, but the presence is enough to make you uneasy. You collapse back on the couch, a headache beginning to form behind your eyes. You pull a pillow into your lap and squeeze it tightly. Your chest is tight with the emotions swirling around you.

Is it anger for his continued touches? Guilt for your welcoming of them? Grief at the fact he’s not Bucky?

“Your face’ll stick like that if you’re not careful.”

You relax your scrunched nose and brows as Steve sits next to you, throwing an arm up on the back of the couch. His fingers brush the back of your neck and you repress a shudder. 

“Talk to me, pretty girl. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Another pet name. You pull yourself down away from his fingers and squeeze the pillow.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why?”

“Because I asked.”

“You know it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Bullshit,” you bite out bitterly. Steve raises his eyebrows at you, amused. You scowl.

***

You’re drifting off to sleep when shuffling downstairs pulls you away. You poke your head out to peer downstairs. Steve’s pulling a bag onto his shoulders and heading for the door. You’re halfway down the stairs before you realize you’ve even moved.

“W-Where are you going?”

Steve turns, a bit of a deer in headlights, and resignation falls across his face.

“I’m needed at the compound.”

You’re at the bottom of the stairs now, hand on the banister to keep you tethered, and the shaking starts as Steve turns back to the door.

“No!”

He pauses, hand on the handle.

“I-I told you, I…I can’t be here by myself anymore. I’m losing my mind!”

Steve smirks at his reflection in the glass of the door. Before he can answer, you’ve crossed the room to stand behind him. You’re reaching out, uncertain exactly what your plan is to keep him from leaving.

_Is that even what you want?_

“Are you asking me to stay?”

Internally, you recoil at the thought, but you continue getting closer to him.

_No more being alone._

Your place your hand between his shoulder blades, leaning on his back slightly.

“Sugar?”

Again, the pet name leaves the hair on your neck on end, but you wrap your arms around his torso.

“I…I can’t be alone anymore.”

Steve twists in your hold, looking down at you. Your tear-filled eyes feeling like a trophy.

“Please.”

Steve lets his bag fall to the floor, enveloping you with his arms. He presses his face into your hair. 

"Okay, pretty girl, I'll stay."


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Massive TW: rape and sexual abuse.   
> Buckle in y'all, we 'bout to dive head first into the deep end. 
> 
> (Sorry, it took so long to update. I moved to another state and graduated and have been job searching. Enjoy! -AK)

Steve’s thumb rubs a circle on the back of your neck. You struggle not to recoil. You’d asked him to stay, to be here, so these touches are…what? Consequences? Your price to pay? You push away your conflicting feelings and settle into the couch cushion. You’re watching some docuseries, and you’re trying to pay attention, but your focus continues to drift to the thumb at the base of your skull.

Steve can see your unease as he traces lazy patterns across the back of your neck. Despite this, you don’t stop him. You didn’t stop him when he hung onto you while you cooked dinner earlier either, holding you from behind and resting his chin on your shoulder. Or yesterday, when he threw his arm around you on the couch. You’ve been on edge when he’s touched you, but again, you haven’t said anything. More importantly, you haven’t told him to stop.

It’s nearly time for the next pregnancy test. Your nerves ramp up with every passing day. Steve thinks the kitchen is going to explode with the amount of baking you’ve been doing. It’s barely light out when Steve wakes the day of, the smell of cinnamon wafting from downstairs. You’re mixing furiously when he stumbles into the kitchen blearily.

“You’re gonna use all the flour in the state if you keep on like this.”

You only offer a “hm” in response.

“C’mon, set it aside for a minute.”

Steve doesn’t wait for you to comply, placing himself between you and the bowl. He takes your hands in his and feels them shake.

“You can’t get this nervous every time.”

You pull your hands away from him, wiping them on your apron. Steve reaches around and unties the cloth from your waist, setting it on the counter behind him.

“C’mere, pretty girl.”

He engulfs you in a…a hug? More of a hold, solid like jail bars, and unrelenting.

“Steve-“

“Hush.”

He lets go, resting his hands on your waist and steering you to the stairs.

“Go on, I’ll be right behind you.”

You cast a worried glance over your shoulder but go anyway. A few minutes later, the sound of shattering glass sends Steve catapulting upstairs. You’ve thrown a candle at the bathroom wall, the pieces littering the bottom of the bathtub.

You’ve got your head in your hands, hair gripped tightly in your fists. The tests are scattered across the bathroom counter. He doesn’t have to look at them. You’re shaking, but not crying.

“This isn’t working. You said it would work.”

“We have more chances.”

“Until they run out. What else can we do?”

“We could hold off, try a fertility regiment, then do the next shot.”

Your head shoots up, eyes willing him to set fire where he stands.

“ _Fertility drugs_?! Why didn’t you do that from the beginning?”

“I didn’t know if we’d need it.”

 _We_.

You feel your face wrinkling up.

“Not we.”

“What?”

“You keep saying we.”

“Okay?”

“ _We_ are not having this baby. _I_ am. If anything, Bucky and I.”

Steve resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“Right, _you_ are having the baby. I didn’t know if _you_ would need it.”

You start the fertility shots the next morning. Four to six weeks from now, try again.

The shot makes your spine ache and Steve offers to run you a hot bath.

“I can do it.”

“I know what you can do.”

“I’m not an invalid.”

“I know that.”

“Stop treating me like one, then.”

His expression darkens for a moment. He rests his hands on your shoulders, pushing down ever so slightly on them as he leans over the back of the couch.

“I’m going upstairs, I’m running a bath, and in a few minutes, you are going to go sit in it.”

“Steve, I-“

“I’m a captain. I give orders, not requests.”

That’s the end of it. Steve lights your citrus candle with the crackling wick and sets it on the counter, opening the blinds to let the morning light flood in. The white curtains soften the sunlight and when you appear in the doorway, Steve has to pause to take in the way you glow. You’re wearing the robe he’d left for you in your closet. The white fluff stops just above your knees and it falls open slightly across your chest. Steve averts his eyes with difficulty and excuses himself. Back in his bedroom, he sinks onto the bed and sighs. He prays you didn’t notice the growing tent in his pants. Steve palms himself through his pajamas, groaning softly at the contact. He scrambles for the tablet on the night table, pulling the feed of your bathroom up. You’re sinking into the tub, sighing contently. Steve watches your body relax below the bubbles. He wonders how soft you’d feel below his hands instead, the pair of you in the large tub, your back pressed to his chest. Maybe you’d rest your head on his shoulder, sigh again as Steve slipped his hand under your breast, kneading gently. Steve’s mind dances through the motions, conjuring imitations of the sounds you might make, and before he knows it, he’s painted his stomach white with his release. Basking in the afterglow of it, he’s stirred by the sound of splashing. You’re exiting the tub, wrapping a towel around yourself, and going to stand at the counter. When you start perusing the goo’s and potions on the tray by the sink, Steve sets the tablet aside. One toweling off of his own and he’s ready to face you again.

You spend the rest of the day in your room, and when Steve steps out to prep some firewood, he can see you watching from the window seat. You had a book, but you’d since set it aside, eyes intently focusing on his form as he swings the ax. Your gaze stays with the ax when he leans it against the side of the house and Steve grits his teeth. Still plotting, even after all the time he’s spent working on your relationship. He slams the door when he comes back in, watching your face disappear around the corner upstairs from where it had been poking out. Steve sets to cooking you something to eat.

Your figure is still leaning against the window, now sagging slightly against the frame. Steve murmurs your name, but you don’t move. A snore rises from your chest, and Steve can’t help but smile. He lifts you off the seat gently, knees falling together over his arm as your head falls a bit against his chest. Steve is struck by the memory of this same position, your blood on his hands. Here, though, now, you were safe. You stir now, eyes fluttering open for a second, lips moving slightly. Whatever words you’re mouthing don't come out, but Steve shushes you, nonetheless.

“You need to eat something.”

“Ste-Ste-“

You can’t seem to eke out the words you want to say. Your lips feel heavy, the same as your eyelids, and your limbs aren’t responding to your thoughts. You don’t want Steve to hold you like this, tenderly like this. Steve shushes you again.

“The drugs are going to make you feel a bit sluggish. It’ll pass.”

_It’ll pass._

You can’t muster any energy to respond or to refuse any of the meal he delivers to you forkful by the forkful. He carries you from the couch back to your bedroom when he’s satisfied with the amount you’ve eaten, placing you gently atop the comforter.

Steve pulls a blanket from your basket in the corner, searching for the softest one he can find, and spreads it out over you. He watches you drift back to sleep in time with the sunset, relaxing into the armchair by the blanket basket. The sedative in your shot had been given the time to become fully effective. He’d decided after your bath to take full advantage of the shot, never stopping to second guess. You needed this, needed a baby, and that meant you needed him.

***

Your hips ache when you open your eyes. Every movement adds another jab of pain as you sit up, groaning a bit. You crack your neck, stumbling from the bed to the bathroom. You could’ve sworn you’d fallen asleep on the window yesterday, and you’d been wearing sweats, but now you had only a tank and your underwear, sweats discarded next to the bed. You shake away your grogginess, flinching as you pull the pants on. You still stumble a bit as you descend the stairs, collapsing in a heap of sore muscles on the chaise lounge. Steve looks up from the counter, closing his laptop and smiling at you.

“Am I going to be this sore and tired after every drug shot?”

“Maybe. They said the side effects can be more severe for some people.”

“And I take them how often?”

“Once a week for four to six weeks.”

You let out an exasperated huff, rolling to face the front of the couch. Steve squats to your level, cocking his head slightly.

“Is it really that bad?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“Whether or not I get to have a pain med.”

Steve chuckles at you, petting your hair for a moment.

“I think I can rustle something up.”

Steve’s days become countdowns to your next drug shot. Nights of hiding his lust in towels, watching you from the armchair in your room, and stealing touches where he can. You embrace him more as he helps you through the pain of the shots and the aftermath. Time passes in a blur, but his nights with you he drags into eternities. Never once do you stir or suspect as he takes you apart. Your body’s natural reactions only spur Steve on as he gives you his release. Four weeks of embracing you go by too quickly.

“It’s time, isn’t it?”

Your question catches him off guard.

“What?”

“It’s been four weeks. It’s test time.”

“It’s only been three weeks.”

The lie tumbles from his mouth before he can stop it. You squint at the tallies on the notepad in front of you, blinking and moving your fingers in time with your counting.

“No, it’s-“

“You counted an extra week.”

“Oh..are-are you sure?”

Your disappointment is particularly palpable. Eyes downcast, you shove the notepad aside aggressively. Steve’s chest constricts at your sudden mood change.

“So, it’s shot day then.”

“Yes.”

“Right…okay.”

“It’s a little late, we could wait ‘til tomorrow.”

“No..no, it’s alright. It’s for the baby, I-I can do it.”

_It’s for the baby._

This is Steve’s mantra when he comes into your room that night. The shot hasn’t had time for full sedation, but you’re sound asleep, nonetheless. He sets to the task, his fervor jostling you. The time was coming when Steve’s work would pay off, and there would be no more visits to your bed. Could he give you up? After everything he’d done to get you in the first place, would he be able to set aside his need?

You’re dreaming, you think, must be. The soft grunts from the end of your bed, the slight rocking of your body. You open one eye fully, the hulking shadow over you either not noticing or not caring as it continued its assault.

“B-Bucky?”

It’s barely a whisper, but the shadow stops for a fraction of a second. It wipes its hair out of its face and stands to its full height. You open both eyes now, shaking your head in short jerks.

“S-St-Ste-“

The shadow with Steve’s face shushes you.

“It’s alright, pretty girl, close your eyes.”

You’re rocking again. The shadow grunts and the rumbling seems to shake your entire body.

“Steve-“

“Hush, pretty girl.”

You summon the strength to press your hand against his chest, the fingers in the flesh of your hip coming up to clutch your palm. You continue rocking…rocking…rocking.

You bolt upright, sunlight flooding the bedroom. Again, your body hurts. Your hips, thighs, and now, you realize, your pelvis. You’re flying to the bathroom, racking your thoughts. Was it a dream? A nightmare?

You pull up your shirt and rip your underwear waistband down, eyes roaming wildly. You press your skin where it's most tender, wincing, but find nothing. Your turning away, mind easing, when you spot them. Side by side, purple and angry.

“Hey, how did you sleep?”

You scream at his voice, jumping and hitting the corner of the counter painfully. Your fingers are still on the bruises. Both gazes travel to the bruises and then to each other. You watch his hand twitch as if he’s going to reach for you.

Steve sees the realization as you collapse against the counter, barely holding yourself up. Tears are spilling from your eyes as you stare up at him. Fear is painted across your features. You shake as you try to stand up. There’s silence for a beat.

“What did you do to me?”


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another Major GIANT TW: Rape  
> We are still in the deep end, please please please, consume content responsibly. 
> 
> (We're staying here a while. I said strap in and I meant it. Sorry kids-AK)

You’ve only seen Steve freeze a few times before. He shakes away his deer-in-headlights moment as quickly as it came.

“What are you talking about?”

“Th-these! They-you…you did this. I-I woke up last night and you-and-“

You’re moving to wretch into the toilet before you can finish the sentence. You raise your head from the bowl to find Steve knelt by your side.

“The fertility drugs. Patients reported vivid dreams. I’m sorry for whatever happened in your dream, but I promise you it wasn’t real. How could you think I’d do something so heinous to you? I would never, never even think of hurting you that way.”

You slump against the porcelain. A dream, a nightmare, from the shot.

“I don’t-I can’t remember-“

“Maybe we should stop with the shots. They seem to be having a lot of negative effects on you. You need your health if you’re going to carry a baby.”

_If?_

You’re too wired to dwell on the “if.”

“No, it’s…I can handle it.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want you pushing yourself too hard.”

“It’s only two more after this one, right? I’ll be fine.”

Steve brings you a breakfast of waffles in your room, urging you to take the day to rest. He walks on eggshells around you after this, giving you some space. You don’t speak much, coming down for your vitamins in the mornings and food throughout the days.

For the first time, Steve sees you venture into the nursery, cleaning the dust off the furniture. You sit on the window seat there, or in the rocking chair, staring at the trees as their leaves start to green. You’d idly rest your hand on your stomach as if you could feel something growing there. He can’t bring himself to take you after your next shots, too afraid of hurting you again. The bruises he’d left in his desperation to keep you…he has to shut his eyes to combat the shame in his chest. You finish out the shots, but don’t take a test, as if you’ve forgotten the shots’ purpose. He doesn’t push you, figuring you’ll take one when you’re ready.

You meticulously clean the nursery, letting yourself and your room fall into disrepair. You needed the space to be ready, to be perfect. Steve took notice, taking some time to lean in the doorway as you scrubbed at the window again. It’s where he’s standing when his phone buzzes when he looks at the screen and then up at you. It’s difficult to read the expression. Resignation, maybe?

“I have to go to the compound. Nat-“

“Nat?”

Your croak of response falls on his ears like a scream of pain. He pauses, glancing at the phone again.

“Yes, she…she’s been back for a while.”

_And she knows._

He doesn’t need to say it for you to understand.

“She needs help with-“

“Wh-why hasn’t she visited?”

Steve sighs and shrugs.

“I really don’t know. I’m sorry she hasn’t.”

“But you have to go?”

“Yes…yes, it shouldn’t be more than a couple of days.”

You look out to the trees. They’ve grown their summer leaves.

“And-and I can’t come with you?”

He looks at you sharply.

“What?”

It’s a challenge, daring you to ask again.

“I just…I need a test soon and then another shot of the serum thing…what if you have to be gone longer than just a couple days?”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just ask me that.”

“Steve, please, I promise I won’t-“

“No.”

“I could see Natasha, and I could show her pictures of the nursery, and we could go pick out maternity clothes or-“

“The answer is no!”

It’s a roar as he crosses the room. His arms shoot out to grab your biceps, shaking you slightly as he draws you in close.

“After everything I’ve done, after everything I’ve given you, you still plot and scheme to run away from me. I give and I give, and I give, but it’s never enough for you, is it?!” Steve snarls, spit landing on your face.

“ _Is_ _it_?!” He shakes you again. You whimper and try to mumble an apology.

“I just wanted a baby,” comes your soft answer, voice cracking through your tears. His nostrils flare a bit as he breathes in harshly.

“A baby? That’s all? Fine, you want a damn baby, then I’ll give you one.”

You don’t have time to process his meaning before he drags you down the hall, kicking the door shut behind him. He’s thrown you onto the end of his bed, peeling off his shirt and tossing aside his boots. You scramble backward, hitting the headboard with a soft thud.

“St-Steve, stop it. You’re scaring me. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean-I’m not scheming, I swear!”

“Shut up. I don’t want to hear another word from you, do you understand me?”

“Steve, please-“

He grabs your jaw harshly, squeezing until your teeth hurt.

“Be respectful and call me by my rank. It’s the least you can do after what you did.”

Every pent-up frustration comes out now as Steve stands over you. Every time you’d rejected his advances, every whisper of Buck’s name as you slept, every snarky remark to his care; it all blinds him as he delves his hands under your shirt.

“Steve, please!”

If he hears you, he ignores you. You claw at him, raking your nails across his cheek when he comes in close. He rears back and grabs your wrists in a punishing grip, holding them above your head.

“What did I tell you?”

“B-be respectful,” you blubber, wondering if compliance will cause him to stop.

“C-Cap-Captain. I-I’m sorry, please, please-“

“Stop whimpering.”

His words are straight acid, stinging your ears as he wedges your knees apart. He uses one hand to hold your wrists and the other to pull at your clothes. Fabric rips and you feel the cool air on your skin. You’re begging now, praying it’s a scare tactic, screaming when you hear his belt clinking.

“If you ask nicely, I _might_ go easy on you.”

Steve pauses his ministrations, breathing hard as he meets your eye. You realize he won’t stop, even if you beg until your voice goes out, and you murmur a please.

“What was that, pretty girl? I couldn’t hear you.”

There’s a prodding against your thigh. You squirm as much as you can in his grip. Anger floods your system where fear had been seconds before. You can’t, won’t, take this. You kick and wiggle under him. Steve can’t help but snigger at your efforts.

“Last chance, _doll_.”

Fresh tears prick at Bucky’s pet name. You scream in response, no real words coming out as the prodding goes higher.

“Steve, don’t!”

“What was that?”

The hand on your wrists goes to your throat, squeezing. You claw at it, but there’s no reprieve.

“C-Captain, I-“

“Say it again, doll.”

“Wha-“

“ _Say it. Again._ ”

Steve drives in and lets out a growl. You wince in pain and cry out again.

“C’mon, again, baby.”

“C-Captain.”

Another sound, more like a groan, and you squeeze your eyes shut in the hopes it will make the moment end faster.

“Look at me, doll.”

You grimace, squeezing tighter.

“I said, Look. At. Me.”

He grabs your chin, punctuating his words with thrusts as his gaze bores into you.

“You want a baby? I’m gonna give it to you.”

He’s talking more to himself than to you, eyes focused on where you’re joined together. His hands move to grip your hips and you know they’re leaving bruises.

“I’m ‘a…I’m ‘a give it to you, pretty girl.”

Another comment to himself more than you. His thrusts are picking up, poking at your cervix and you flinch at the pain. He rests his palm against your cheek as if a single second of softness will make up for what he’s done. What he’s doing.

“Look at me.”

You turn away, but he catches your chin with his fingers.

“You ready, doll?”

You sob as he groans, coming to a stop inside you. Lips press to your temple.

“I’ll see you when I get home.”

***

You haven’t moved in hours, curled in on yourself in the middle of his bed. You haven’t made a sound since he left you. Steve watches through the tablet, fingers tracing over your figure.

“How’s she doing?”

“Tired. She opted for the fertility drugs and the side effects have been rough on her.”

Nat nibbles on a sandwich as she watches the screens in front of them. There’s chaos on the outskirts of metro areas, Hydra resurgence, and she’d called him in to consult, maybe to fly out.

“I should have visited.”

“She understands it’s difficult to make time.”

“Does she?”

“Of course, Nat. I told her you’d come after the baby situation was resolved.”

“The baby situation? Is that what you’re calling it?”

“You know what I meant.”

She sighs, smiling softly as she sets the sandwich aside.

“You know I'd offer to cook you dinner, but you seem pretty miserable already. Saw a pod of whales on my way across the bridge.”

“In the Hudson?”

“Fewer ships. It’s cleaner now.”

“If you’re about to tell me to look at the bright side, I’ll pelt you with this sandwich.”

Steve chuckles, falling into the chair across from her.

“We keep telling everyone to move on, grow, and keep their lives as normal as they can, but we don’t move on, do we?”

She doesn’t answer immediately.

“I used to have nothing, then I found this or… or it found me, made me better. I’m still trying to be better, even with the people who got me here are gone.”

Steve nods, reaching his hand across the table. He’s about to squeeze her hand when there’s a noise from the screen beside them.

“Hello? Oh! Hi! People! Hey, uh, it’s, um, Scott Lang? We fought together at an airport in Germany a few years ago? I had a mask on, got really big, and, uh...Ant-man? With the antenna?”

Steve stares at the screen.

“Is…is this an old message?”

“No, it-it’s the front gate.”

By the time they get Scott in and listen through his babble, Steve knows he has to get back to you as soon as he can. It’s Nat who stops him with a pointed look.

“We have to go see Tony.”

“He won’t talk to me. She needs to know what’s going on.”

“You can catch her up later. This is more important right now.”

He checks in on you before they leave. You still haven’t moved. By the time they leave Tony’s, Nat is booking flights out to the West Coast.

“I need to go check on her.”

“Rogers.”

“This is my last field trip, Natasha.”

*** 

You feel everything as you move off the bed. Your thighs stick together a bit as you walk to your bathroom. You glance at your reflection, noting the purple splotches on your wrists and neck. You’re sure there are more on your thighs and hips from where Steve had pried you apart. You let the tub fill, not caring when the water scalds your skin. You’re not sure how long you’d laid on Steve’s soiled comforter. Hunger is screaming in your stomach and your head swims through the steam of the bath.

You don’t know how long you’d slept on the bed, but it’s dark out. By the time you pull yourself from the tub, the water is ice cold against your skin. You don’t bother to drain it as you pull on your robe, taking shaky steps towards the stairs. You slip on the second step, tumbling onto your back and sliding down to the bottom. You make a noise of pain, hugging your chest as a means of coping with the waves of discomfort. It’s a slow walk to the kitchen. You end up nibbling on a banana and some crackers Steve had left out. The taste of little more than dirt in your mouth.

Noise against the window catches your attention. Rain pitters against the glass and you hear thunder rolling in the distance. You wobble to the windows, staring out into the dark as you occasionally raise a cracker to your mouth. You drag a blanket off the couch, the storm clouds moving closer as thunder begins to rumble louder and louder.

The rain beats against the glass in time with the thunder.

Lightning crackles once. Twice. Three times.

The thunder is enough to deafen you.

You’re walking to the medical suite. You’re pulling on real clothes, your coat, and your boots. You tuck Bucky’s vial into your inside coat pocket with the little yellow hat from the nursery.

You sit on the edge of the couch and wait.

The light in the kitchen flickers.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More trigger warnings for the end of the chapter. We're close to the end now y'all. Hope you're still buckled in.   
> -AK

You don’t get far. Steve watches your chip blink on the quinjet radar, a little over ten miles from the house. You’d gone further up the mountain, a mistake surely, but he knows you’re lost out here without a GPS to guide you. You’re huddling under a tree when he finds you, asleep, taking in the most ragged breaths he’s ever heard. You’ve got cracked ribs, for sure, and he curses himself as he carries you back to the jet. You stir a bit, eyes fluttering open to look up at him. There’s recognition and fear, but you’re too exhausted to fight him as he straps you into the second pilot seat. You come around a bit, refusing to look at him as he flies back to the house. Silence is the only companion you’re employing right now. As he leads you up the deck steps into the house, you croak out a question.

“How’d you find me?”

Steve thinks about your first night with him in the house. You’d been asleep on the couch when he’d injected it, courtesy of Stark tech, and in the morning you hadn’t even noticed the little red mark on your neck.

“I’ll always find you.”

You let your shoulders sag a bit as Steve directs you back into your prison. He takes your coat, the vial of Bucky’s serum, and your boots.

“You should eat something.”

“Not hungry.”

Your stomach gurgles loudly and you make a face at it. Traitor.

“Right, well I’m going to make something for your not hungry stomach to have. You should go and clean up. You’re covered in dirt.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Water destroys evidence.”

Steve stops, sets aside the pan he’d been getting from the cabinet.

“You expecting someone to come and collect evidence?”

It’s rhetorical, mocking, and you shrink away from him.

“Is that where you were headed? To find some small-town police station where they’d send you to a hospital and run a kit? What would you have told them, pretty girl?”

No answer.

“Go shower off.”

You don’t move.

“Go.”

You’re gone a while, returning in an overly large cream sweater that dips off your shoulder. The white serves as a stark contrast to the purple marks dotting your skin and Steve has to look away from you to stop the bile in the back of his throat. Had he really done that to you? Had you really deserved it?

It’s for the baby.

You sink onto the couch and pick at your fingernail. When Steve brings you the chili, you stare at it instead of eating. He leaves it until the bowl is teetering on cold.

“You need to eat, doll.”

“Don’t,” you hiss at him. It’s all bark and Steve knows it. He sighs and takes the bowl from your lap.

“I’ll force you if I have to.”

“You already did.”

A beat of silence as he processes what you mean.

“Just…just eat the damn chili,” he mutters, holding the spoon up to your mouth. You take a small bite.

***

You carefully place the plastic bag with your ruined underwear under your mattress. No chance to save any of the physical evidence without photos, and no access to anything with a camera, meant saving whatever physical evidence you could. You racked your memories for what they did on crime shows. You took fingernail clippings next; you were certain you’d seen that on tv. You’d stuck a q-tip into yourself until it hurt, praying your swipes would collect something. Each thing with its own little bag placed neatly under the mattress below your pillows.

Steve watches you through the camera lens and sighs. Bless you for trying to salvage something. He’ll take the bags when he takes you to the med bay later for a once over and toss them. The med bay prompts another sigh. You won’t eat enough to give yourself energy, haven’t had any water, and will likely refuse it were Steve to offer. You’d need to be kept there until you were more fit, healed from your adventure in the woods. Would it be easier to do while you were sleeping? Probably.

You’re laying on the couch, fighting your heavy eyelids when Steve looms over you.

“I need to take you to the med bay. I think you’ve got some cracked ribs.”

That would explain the pain in your chest and side. You roll to face the back of the couch, wincing in pain. Steve notices and lets out a long sigh.

“Look, I don’t want to hurt you by lifting you, but you know I will.”

“Now you don’t want to hurt me?”

Your words are soft, but the accusatory tone is crystal clear. Anger bubbles under your skin, making your blood hot. You turn slightly to look up at him.

“If they’re cracked, then it was you who cracked them.”

“I know.”

His admission of guilt sounds broken. As if he could really feel remorseful over the act.

“Please.”

His voice breaks slightly, and you can see his shoulders sagging a bit as he kneels next to the couch.

“I’m sorry, I never…”

Whatever Steve has to say dies in his throat as his gaze falls to your neck. You sit up with a bit of difficulty and your sweater falls off your shoulder. He can see the splotches of bruised skin along your neck up close now, clear imprints of where his fingertips had pressed into your windpipe. He skims them with his hand, and you flinch, hard, sucking in a breath at the pain that blooms across your skin. Steve takes your hands gently, pulling your sleeves back to reveal the same deep purple fingerprints embedded into your wrists.

“I-I never wanted-I didn’t want to hurt you.”

You rip yourself from his hold.

“But you did.”

“Is…are these the…did I-“

“They’re all over me.”

You laugh bitterly, somehow amused at the state he’s putting himself in over this damage.

“You need x-rays,” he says softly, more to himself, and when he reaches for you, you pull away.

“I can walk myself.”

Steve watches you wince as you walk, hobbling slightly from your aching body. He can feel his heart breaking a little more with every step you take. His phone buzzes and pulls him away from you.

Get here ASAP.

He watches the med bay door close behind you.

“House system.”

“Voice recognition system: Stephen G. Rogers.”

“Lock med bay door. Engage quarantine protocols.”

“Quarantine protocols activated.”

You hear the lock before you have time to register the noises outside. Through the little window, you can see Steve looking at you, forlorn. The handle won’t budge and when you try to use the fingerprint scanner, the light blinks red at you. Steve turns away from you, from your screams and cries, and heads for the door to the deck.

He’d be back soon enough. You could heal in the meantime.

***

“That’s a baby.”

“But it’s still Scott! I see this as an absolute win!”

“Bruce, he’s a baby!”

Steve gestures and the baby giggles. A few more tests and they bring Scott back as himself. Steve thinks his head is going to explode if he keeps watching this. Collapsing onto a bench, he breathes in the warm air. You’d like it here, the sun on your skin, maybe in a sundress like you’d where at the house in Wakanda. He’d take you back there one day, he thinks. Tires on gravel pull him out of his thoughts. He recognizes the car just before the window rolls down.

“Why the long face? No, wait, don’t tell me. They turned into him into a baby.”

Steve isn’t sure if he’s happy to see Tony or not.

“ Um, yeah, they did. What are you doing here?”

“That's the EPR Paradox. Instead of pushing Lang through time, you might've wound up pushing time through Lang. It's tricky. Dangerous. Somebody should've cautioned you against it.

“I think you did.

“Moi? I dunno, cautioning against recklessness doesn’t sound like me. Regardless, I fixed it. Here.”

He holds out his hand and presents a watch-looking item to Steve.

“A fully functioning Time-Space GPS. You know, it turns out, resentment is corrosive, and I hate it. I think we should all want peace.”

Steve stares at it, dumbfounded. It’s that easy? With this thing?

“Here’s the terms, Cap, we bring back what we lost, keep what we have, at all costs. Maybe not die trying will be nice.”

Tony steps out of the car, hand extended. Steve shakes it vigorously.

“Tony...it’s-it’s good to have you back.”

“Oh, and one more thing.”

He steps away to the trunk, a gleam of red, white, and blue metal appearing in the reflection on his glasses. The shield looks the same as the day he left it.

“Are you…are you sure?”

“He made it for you. Besides, I caught Morgan trying to take it sledding.

It feels good on his arm again, Steve decides, weighing the familiar heft with his hand.

“Will you keep that a little quiet? Didn't bring one for the whole team. We…we have a whole team?”

Steve thinks about the discussion of Thor.

“We’re trying.”

***

You’re sitting with your back to the door when you hear the jet roar. He’s been gone for days, your only contact a hole in the wall presenting you with a meal, a mediocre meal at that. It’s his third time being gone since he’d mentioned Nat. When the door to the deck opens, he calls for you and you slump away from the door. His face appears in the door’s window and you scowl up at him.

“I had to be sure you wouldn’t hurt yourself.”

“I’ll hurt you if you don’t let me shower and eat real food.”

Your bark has returned in full force and Steve has to be a little thankful. _His feisty, pretty girl_. You bolt for your room the minute he opens the door.

“I have to talk with you when you’re done!”

He calls after you. How could he explain the quantum realm? The heist? Did he want to? Bringing back everyone…including Buck and your kid. He couldn’t keep you here then, couldn’t keep Buck from you, or you from your daughter. Libby? Livy? Something like that. Tony had said they’d need a month to make the proper preparations, maybe longer if Steve was jetting off to unknown places. Nat had shot Steve a look after that comment but hadn’t asked about you. She was too busy keeping Clint on a short leash after his stint as a mercenary to give your troubles a thought. Of course, as far as she knew, you were living peacefully in the mountains with Steve checking in now and then. The sound of the shower stopping above him brings Steve back to the present. You’re at the top of the stairs a few minutes later, drying your hair with an old t-shirt and putting it up in something you had told him was called a “plop.” He didn’t pretend to understand it. You have on a Sherpa hoodie and soft socks pulled up over the bottom of your leggings, a picture of comfort. Steve can see your bruises have faded a bit around your neck.

“I thought you were going to fix food.”

“Yeah, I-No, no, I have to-we need to talk about something.”

_We’re bringing them back._

_You’ll have a family again._

“I want to…to apologize again.”

You make a face and cross your arms.

“I’m not interested in your apologies. You…” You’re biting back tears, “I’m done listening to you try to rationalize everything you’ve done to me.”

“No, please, doll, I-“

He’s holding your shoulders now.

“Don’t! Don’t call me that!”

You scream it at him, eyes blazing with fury as you tremble in his hands.

“Please, let me-“

“I won’t let you do anything to me.”

“No, I didn’t mean, I just-“

“I hate you. You disgust me. You-“

Steve can’t take it, just wants you to be quiet, just want you to listen. The sound of the smack echoes under the rafters. You hit the ground with a thud, holding your cheek as you stare up at him through tears. He kneels and takes your face in his hands.

“Please. Just listen to me. Let me…I need to show you how sorry I am.”

His hands skim your hips, pressing you to his chest, face lowering to capture your mouth into a kiss. You’re beating your fists against his chest, crying and yelling at him, but your pleas are falling on deaf ears.

He’s going to lose you soon, Steve thinks. He needs to make the most of his time, needs to give you the family you’re wanting, needs you to understand his feelings. He tries to handle you carefully; despite the way you push him away. He doesn’t rip your clothes away this time, pulling a bit at a time until your leggings have your ankles trapped in a bundle. You try to kick at him, but he dodges as he presses on your thighs. He takes time to press featherlight kisses to every bruise he sees, a silent apology for the way he’d ravaged you before. You bite back whimpers as he warms you up for him, wanting you to feel as good as he does when he’s with you. You’re still fighting him, but your hands have fallen to your sides now, feet kicking less. When you quake around his fingers, he pulls away to look at you as he angles himself. You’re still crying, and he kisses the corner of your eye, putting his forehead against yours, relishing the whine you let out when he enters.

“Shush, pretty girl, it’s alright. I won’t hurt you. I’ll never hurt you again.”


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: We got some more trauma for the reader.   
> A lot of this chapter is tying in the Endgame arc, sorry if it's not what y'all wanted but we gotta add context and set up future events here -AK

You wake in Steve’s bed, tucked under the comforter carefully. You don’t remember being brought here, nor falling asleep, but here you were, nonetheless. You’re wearing a t-shirt too large to be your own, but nothing on your lower half. As sleep retreats, you become aware of a weight on your waist and you grimace when you realize it's his arm. You squirm to get out from under him.

“Morning.”

His voice is gruff, full of drowsiness, and too close to your ear for your liking. He pulls you closer, your back flush against his chest. You feel a prod against your ass. You squirm and he groans softly.

“You trying to get me all heated up already, pretty girl?”

You push at his arm, but he holds fast, shushing you.

“It’s alright, don’t do that, sweetheart. I meant what I said. I won’t be hurting you anymore.”

He pulls you again, effortlessly lifting you over his lap. He’s naked as the day he was born and you shut your eyes, turning away from him. Fingers on your chin, then your cheek, turn you back.

“Look at me, pretty girl.”

You squeeze your eyes shut tighter, not wanting to know exactly when he would start his assault. A sigh, then lips brushing yours, trying to mold you against him. You throw your hands out to push on his chest, but he grabs them easily, setting them down onto your thighs.

“Don’t be like that. This will feel good, it’ll always feel good from now on, I promise.”

You swallow the lump forming in your throat. Were you really so weak?

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

When you gain the courage to open one eye, he’s staring at you, smiling gently.

“You want me to make you feel good, don’t you?”

He kneads his thumb along your hip, hand falling to cup your ass and squeeze. You must make a face because he pauses.

“Don’t you?”

The question is more of a threat this time. You nod slowly, what else could you do?

“Good, good. C’mere, lemme feel you.”

He pulls you by your neck into a kiss. You don’t reciprocate, but you stop pushing against him. He lifts your hips a bit and you know he’s prepping to enter. You sob, a loud hiccupping sound, and he shushes you, pulling your face into the crook of his neck. You shut your eyes again, hissing at the burn and stretch. More shushing, a hand petting your hair.

“Such a good girl for me.”

You shudder, which only serves to spur him on. Slowly, the burn subsides and you curse your body for its willingness to comply with his ministrations.

“That’s it, pretty girl, c’mon. Make some noise for me.”

He brings you down a little harder and you yelp softly, face still buried in his neck. He groans, doing it again, and this time, you can’t stop the whine in the back of your throat. Was it you enjoying this or being compliant with his request? You don’t want to dwell on that train of thought. When his hips start to stutter a bit, you let out another sob. He slows, using you to ease himself down, before stopping completely. He kisses your temple, your cheek, then your mouth. They’re chaste and gentle, a means of comforting you.

You lose track of how many times he uses you. On your back, staring at the skylight in the ceiling, watching the clouds pass. Face in the pillows, wondering if they’ll suffocate you before he finishes. Your body is putty, molding into the different positions he places you in. Each time he groans your name, praising you for your compliance, you can’t stop tears from leaking out. He withdraws, finally, and collapses down next to you, pulling you to lay with your head on his chest. His finger traces nonsensical patterns on your back while murmurs sweet nothings to your forehead, mixing in the occasional press of his lips.

His phone buzzes at some point and he sighs when he looks at it. He leaves then, making noise downstairs. You curl in on yourself again, same as when he’d done this the first time, and wait for him to return. You count the seconds, the minutes until his figure appears in the doorway.

“I have to go to the compound again. I fixed some little meals and snacks for you, so you don’t have to do much. I shouldn’t be gone long, maybe a couple days.”

He smiles at you as if this is meant to be good news. He sits you up and holds your chin to make you look up at him.

“I’m going to miss you, pretty girl. I’ll be back for you, don’t worry.”

_Back for you._

“You need to get up and eat. Clean up. I ran you a bath.”

He pulls you up onto your shaking legs, swatting you on the ass to prompt you towards your room. You wobble a bit in the doorway, looking back at him.

“Go on, sweetheart.”

***

“Where do you keep jetting off to?”

Nat pauses her flipping through files. Tony’s question settles onto the silent room, the others looking up curiously.

“Nowhere.”

“We’re rewriting time and you jet off for days to,” he gestures around, “Nowhere?”

“Yes.”

“Listen, _Cap_ , in case you haven’t noticed it’s all hands on deck, so unless you spill the beans, I’m restricting your jet privileges.”

“Tony, you know you can’t do that. Drop it.”

“Have you got some new squeeze you’re too embarrassed to bring home to meet the family?”

Steve feels his ears burning.

“Oh ho! So that’s it, then?”

“Tony-“

“No way, I wanna meet the little lady who-“

“Tony, enough.”

Nat’s voice cuts through the room. Tony’s mouth falls open a bit.

“I’m sorry, is there something _you’d_ like to share with the class?”

“It’s Steve’s business. We have other things going on right now.”

She takes a paper from a file and scans it with her finger. She looks over it at him and Tony throws his hands up in surrender. She squints at the paper and rises suddenly, rearranging some images on the holoscreen they’d been using as a thought board.

“Guys, if you pick the right year, there are three stones in New York.”

“What?”

“Look, here and here, and here. 2012.”

Steve moves to her side, looking at the shots of the battle.

“So then, we’d need a team for each location. We have Asgard, 2013, space 2014, and…and New York 2012.”

Steve looks around at the team, his team, and nods slowly.

“Okay, three teams. We’ve only got one shot, guys. No takebacks.”

The others nod solemnly. 

“And everything is ready?”

“Clint tested it yesterday.”

“Okay. So…so we’re doing this. Everyone rest up. We’ll need to be at our best.”

Steve’s bolting from the room as the others dissipate. One more night with you, that’s all he gets and then…then he has to bring you back. Right? It would be cruel to keep you, to sequester you away from your family, but of course, you wouldn’t know. Nat wouldn’t let him keep you, would fight him tooth and nail to get you from the house. He leans against the wall, breathing heavily. How could he let you go?

“Steve.”

Nat’s voice pulls him from his panic.

“N-Nat.”

“You can’t leave, not now.”

“I have to…I have to see her before-“

“You’ll see her after. We’ll take the jet out together to get her.”

“But, Nat-“

“Steve. The team needs you right now. One last mission and then you can step away. Alright?”

There’s no arguing with her and he looks out onto the grounds. It’s nearly midnight and he wonders if you’re looking up at the sliver of moon hanging in the sky the same as him.

“Alright.”

***

He’s been gone for three days. You’ve barely done anything in the time. You found your evidence bag missing from your bed and broke down. You dropped a cup of juice and broke down. You tripped on a blanket and broke down. Now you’re staring out the skylight above his bed. You’ve been sleeping there, for what reason you couldn’t begin to dissect. Were you really missing him? After what he’d done? You hadn’t stopped him, had stopped fighting, had even enjoyed parts of what he was doing. Did that mean you wanted him? You shut your eyes in the hopes it will turn off the brain noise. It doesn’t.

When dawn appears, you drag yourself from the bed. You take the comforter with you, wrapping yourself into a bundle on the couch. You nibble at a banana and wait. Waiting for him is all you can do now, the only purpose you can find. The day passes, shadows growing across the ground, but still, he doesn’t come back.

***

Steve curses.

“You ruined the heist!”

Scott’s got his head in his hands and Tony sighs.

“Oh really, I had no idea.”

“Look we…do we have any other options?”

Tony pauses to think.

“I have…there might be. I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean?”

I know for a fact they were there and I-Look, we’re gonna have to improvise a bit.”

Steve glances at Tony uneasily.

“We need to go to Jersey. Scott, take the scepter back to the compound. Cap, I-we gotta try, right?”

Steve sighs and looks up at him.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I-yes. Type it in. 04-07-1-9-7-0.”

***

The sky is beginning to dim into dusk. You wonder if he’s actually going to come back. Would that be a blessing or a curse? You’ve eaten little, moved less, as the thought of not being by the door fills you with panic. You want to be there when he returns, though you’re not sure why. You should be disgusted with him, hate his touch, but here you were, craving the intimacy he’d given you. Was it really intimacy? If you didn’t tell him to stop, regardless of whether he would have, did you really have any room to claim he was in the wrong?

Rumlow’s actions had been so cruel in comparison, a means to an end, but Steve? Steve felt different, was different, but you knew it was still a form of cruelty to do these things to you.

_And yet…_

***

Steve stares through the blinds, blinks rapidly as if to reassure himself he’s really seeing her. His hand is on the doorknob, and it’s turned slightly in his grasp.

_Change nothing. Talk to no one._

Bruce’s words echo in his ears. But there she was, right there in front of him, and he could so easily reach out to her. Peggy gathers a stack of files on the desk and turns away from him, leaving him alone in the office. Something in his chest weighs heavily as he turns to head to his rendezvous point with Tony. She’d looked as beautiful as the day he’d left her.

When he finds Tony, the man has tears in his eyes.

“Tony, are you-“

“Oh, you know me, just get caught up in the moment sometimes.”

The pull in his gut is nothing compared to the wrenching pain in his heart. He lands back on the platform, looking around at the others. Clint is on his knees, staring at his hands, and next to him…is no one.

“Clint, where’s Natasha?”


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More context, Mostly Steve's perspective. Next chapter is the finale! -AK

Steve stares out across the lawn. He’s stopped his tears, but it doesn’t change the sorrow resounding through his body. Natasha. Dead on a distant planet. No one there to bury her. Clint couldn’t even bring her body back to them. His first friend on the team, fiercely loyal to him even when they disagreed on the Accords. She’d been there for Bucky, to talk through the trauma of the Red Room and Hydra. Steve had never asked her about her past outright. He’d read files, heard snippets of stories, but never took the time to speak with her.

He was selfish for that. Just as he had been selfish with Bucky’s story, patting him on the back and smiling through his visits to Wakanda prior to Bucky’s decision to join the mission team. He pulls his phone out to check the house cameras. You’re perched on the corner of the couch, wrapped in his comforter. Steve wonders if you miss him.

The team’s been bickering about whether or not they could bring her back. After a half-hour of anger and grief, Bruce pushes through.

“She’s not coming back. We have to…the stones, we have to make this worth it or she died for nothing. Everything is ready in the lab, we should-we need to make it happen.”

Everyone gathers, eyeing Tony’s homemade gauntlet warily.

“So, who’s gonna do it?”

Rocket’s question cuts through the tension. Everyone looks at each other for a moment. They hadn’t discussed it, hadn’t thought they’d get this far, but now…now it was staring it in the face. Steve considers the gauntlet, but a hulking form pushes past him.

“I’ll do it.”

Thor’s voice shakes a little. The unspoken, but unanimous, disagreement ripples through the team. Steve puts a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“We need to discuss this. We have no idea-“

“No, I should do it. I-I’m the strongest, I need to-“ His voice trembles more, desperate now, “I need to do something right.”

Tony steps forward, looking up into Thor’s face.

“Look– It's not just the fact that that glove is channeling enough energy to light up a continent, I'm telling you, you're in no condition.”

It’s Bruce’s voice that parts the silence next.

“Then it’s me, isn’t it?”

Tony balks.

“Banner, you can’t possibly, I mean…Bruce, we don’t know what that thing will do to you.“

“No, but it’s mostly gamma radiation, right? So, I mean, what could more do to me? It’s like-like I was made for this.”

There’s no arguing with Bruce as he steps forward, putting his hand into the glove as delicately as he can. Everyone braces as the stones glow.

“FRIDAY, Barn Door protocol!”

The lab locks down, steel doors closing at every exit. Bruce falls to one knee, groaning in pain.

“Bruce!”

Steve doesn’t know where the cry comes from, but he knows he can’t lose another friend today. Thor steps closer, but Bruce holds his arm out.

“No, don’t! It’s-It’s okay!”

He raises the glove, fingers poised to snap. The clink of metal on metal echoes through the room. The stones stop glowing as Bruce falls onto his back, passed out from the pain. Clint kicks the gauntlet to the side, kneeling beside Bruce’s large figure. Steve steps forward as Bruce’s eyes open.

“Do we…do we know if it worked?”

A phone buzzes somewhere to Steve’s left.

***

You stare at the trees. There’s something wrong. No, maybe not wrong, just different? Birds, you think, you can hear birds. Not that you hadn’t heard birds before, but suddenly the birds are louder. You blink, a deer suddenly standing off the deck. It hadn’t been there a moment before. You rise from the couch, watching it look into the house for a moment before sauntering through the trees. What magic was this? You blink out into the sun, resting your hand against the glass. There’s a dinging from the kitchen counter. Steve’s laptop. Left behind in his rush to get to the compound. You raise the lid cautiously, staring at the notification.

Security breach: Avengers Compound. Aerial assault. Take cover.

Your fingers shake as you press on the keypad, pulling up camera feeds. The screen is cracked, rumble and debris the only thing visible. You can see someone walking by, but the cracks on the screen obscure their face. You can see blue skin, a figure kneeling in front of something or someone out of frame. Panic and bile rise in your throat. You click through the various cameras, each more decimated than the last. What’s left of the medical wing is all you can get a clear picture of, but it tells you nothing. Someone darts across the bottom of the screen, a blonde head, but you’re uncertain if it’s Steve. You frantically type up a url for a news site. Cameras pan across a sky of ships, surrounding a large black mass showering shots onto the compound. You scramble to the trash can and vomit. You drag the laptop down to your position next to the garbage and watch the coverage in horror.

“No word yet on the status of the Avengers, who, according to this station’s sources, were all present at the time of the attack.”

You vomit again.

***

Steve’s being shaken, he can feel it, but can’t bring himself to open his eyes.

“Dammit Steve, I can’t do this on my own,” Tony’s voice mutters above him. Steve groans, bringing an arm to cradle his aching stomach.

“Praise Jesus, he lives. Hey, get up.”

Dazed, he lets Tony drag him up to a standing position. Steve wobbles a bit but manages to focus on Tony’s hunched form.

“Wha-What happened?”

“We messed with time. It tends to mess back. C’mon, I’ll explain on the way.”

He pauses, holding out the shield.

“You lose that again, I’m keeping it.”

Steve limps a bit as he follows Tony up a crest to where Thor stands, gazing out over the ripped apart land. In the distance, Thanos sits, leaning on a large rock, his sword dug into the ground by his side.

“What? How?”

“He’s from 2014.”

“Does-the stones, are they-“

“He doesn’t have them. They’re somewhere under all this.”

Steve breathes an aching sigh of relief. Thor reaches out his hands, pulling his ax and hammer to him. A thunderclap and burst of light give him armor and his cape.

“So, we keep him from them.”

“It’s a trap.”

“So be it.”

Steve tightens the strap on the shield and grits his teeth. It would be to the death, whether his or theirs. The three of them set off, coming to stand before Thanos, who has an amused expression on his face.

“You could not live with your own failure. And where did that bring you? Back to me. I thought by eliminating half of life, the other half would thrive. But you’ve shown me that’s impossible. And as long as there are those that remember what was, there will always be those that are unable to accept what can be. They will resist. I'm thankful. Because now, I know what I must do. _[stands up]_ I will shred this universe down to its last atom. _And_ then– With the stones you've collected for me, create a new one. Teeming with life but knows not what it has lost but only what it has been given. A grateful universe.”

Steve grimaces.

“Born out of blood and death.

“They’ll never know, and I’ll ensure you won’t be around to tell them.”

Thor crackles next to Steve, who hears the whine of the arc reactor on his left. Lightning cracking above, Thanos grabs Tony by the foot, holding him up as a shield against the force. Steve runs at him, driving the shield forward to get at Thanos, but he’s pushed back, falling head over heel into the ground. Steve looks up in time to watch Thor be backhanded over a pile of dirt. Thanos stalks towards him, raising his sword. Steve doesn’t think, doesn’t speak, just reacts. He wonders if this is how Thor feels all the time as Mjolnir zooms past Thanos’ head, a near miss, and flies into his hand. He can barely hear Thor’s exclamation over the thunder roaring in his ears. He launches towards Thanos, lightning flashing as the titan dodges, narrowly escaping the crack into the ground. They trade blows, Steve coming down onto Thanos’ helmet, which he tosses away. Pain in the back of his leg causes Steve to buckle slightly, giving Thanos the chance to knock Mjolnir away. In a blur of metal crashing against metal, Steve watches the shield be shattered in half. Thanos grabs him by his injured leg, Steve groaning in pain, and he finds himself flying through the air.

Dazed, Steve blinks until his eyes are able to open fully. The shield lays in pieces in front of him. He can hear the roar of Thanos’ army behind him. Slowly, he gets to his feet, staring out at the sea of bodies ready to fight. He looks down at his feet, the strap of the shield staring up at him, and he thinks of you as he takes it in his hands. He thinks of how you’d cowered when he’d opened your cell door and how your eyes had lit up when you’d realized he was there to rescue you. How soft you were, how gentle, and kind. Would Thanos enslave Earth or simply destroy it? Would he massacre the team first?

Steve tightens the strap of the shield, shaking, and looks up at Thanos as he stands ahead of his army, a smirk on his bloodied face.

To the death then.

For the team.

For you.

A crackling in his ear stops Steve as he preps to surge. Sam’s voice in his ear.

“On your left, Cap.”

Steve turns and squints at the glowing portal, watching Sam’s wings soar out and circle. T’Challa, Shuri at his side, steps through the portal, the figures of the Wakandan army behind him. At the head of the left flank, Steve sees another familiar face. His knees buckle slightly as Bucky loads a magazine into his gun. They lock eyes and Bucky nods, gaze turning to the army behind Steve.

Steve turns too as more and more portals open. From the compound rumble, he sees Scott in his giant form, lifting the team from the lab onto the battlefield.

He thinks of you again as he calls for his team, his own army, and they launch into battle. He and Thor are going back and forth with the army, Thor stopping him suddenly.

“Give me that, you take the little one.”

He sees a winged horse overhead, Spider-man swinging from the saddle with gauntlet in hand.

“Uh, C-Captain?”

“Kid, keep hold of that and get as far as you can from Thanos.”

“Okay, I can do that!”

He swings away, catching onto Scott’s elbow as Scott plows through Chitauri with his feet. Steve doesn’t see the gauntlet again until Wanda pulls it out of one of the Chitauri’s grasp. The field in front of her glows fiery red, Thanos staring at her as she decimates his forces. She stalks across the bodies, coming to land in front of the titan. Steve can’t help but stare as well as she takes Thanos on singlehandedly, almost with ease. There’s a moment Steve thinks he’ll watch her kill Thanos on her own, but then the missiles start. He’s thrown back to the battlefield in France as the Third Reich reigned bombs down onto the trenches. Frozen for a moment, he feels someone clap his shoulder.

“What, are you feeling tired?”

It’s almost what he’d said to Thor during the battle of New York. He grins slightly. The fire stops suddenly, turning to the sky.

“What are they shooting at?”

Tony’s voice comes over the coms.

“Our hail Mary.”

A streak of light splits Thanos’ ship, flashing to the ground in a glowing aura. Carol.

“Danvers, we’re glad to see you.”

“Thought I’d drop in,” she chirps, taking the gauntlet from a frightened and awestruck Spider-man. A flurry of movement has the woman on the Pegasus, Wanda, and Pepper at her side.

“Get it to the quantum tunnel. Scott will direct you from there.”

“Can do.”

They set off. Steve turns with Thor, throwing himself back into the battle. He’s not sure how much time passes before there’s a loud crackling in the distance. Everything freezes for a moment, lights erupting from somewhere beyond a rise in the dirt. Dust flakes around him as the army fades away. Steve’s running, before he even knows what he’ll find, crossing the crest in time to see Pepper kneeling over someone. He doesn’t have to look to know it’s Tony. The kid swings over, landing on Tony’s other side, each of them murmuring to him. He’s falling to one knee, in respect, in exhaustion, in grief. He sees others doing the same in his peripherals, someone resting a hand on his shoulder. Bucky’s gun comes to rest on the ground next to Steve, his friend kneeling next to him.

“We won, punk.”


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey kids! Thanks for sticking around. FINALE CHAPTER  
> I really appreciate your comments and support through this fic. It was hard to write. Keep an eye out for more work if you like my writing.  
> -AK

Steve sits and stares out at the wreckage while Bucky paces in front of him.

“You don’t know where she is?”

“She left the compound and I-I tried looking, but I lost her at the southern border.”

“What have you got?”

“She left everything she couldn’t pack in a bag, took one of the cars, but she switched to something else outside Mexicali. I didn’t know what to do, Buck, I-I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, we’ll-we’ll find her. Did she say anything about why she was leaving?”

“I wasn’t exactly her confidante.”

“Do you think Natasha knew?”

“I don’t know. She could’ve, but she never let on anything to me.”

Bucky falls onto the grass beside Steve.

“We’ll find her, Steve, we gotta. Look, I’m going to Wakanda in the morning to get Lily, we can talk more when I get back.”

“Tony’s funeral is tomorrow and then-then Bruce is gonna set me up to return the stones.”

“After that, then.”

“Yeah, after that.”

***

You haven’t moved in hours, glued to the laptop screen as more and more news footage roles in. The compound in pieces, the dusting reversed, and you, alone, in the mountains. Natasha would come to get you, or Bucky, or both of them. Lily, safe again in your arms, with Bucky to protect you from any more of Steve’s advances. If Bucky was going to be here, you needed to be more presentable than the mess you were in right now. You wad up Steve’s comforter and toss it away, but guilt leaves you pausing to go back and fold it neatly. A hot shower and a set of clean clothes later, you head downstairs again. This time, your waiting isn’t full of dread.

***

Steve hugs his friend a little tighter than necessary, slipping the flash drive into his pocket. With the hammer in one hand and the briefcase of stones in the other, he steps up onto the platform and gives Bruce a thumbs up. Sam and Bucky smile as he goes, neither of them any bit the wiser. His friends fade as he’s catapulted into the quantum realm, each stone carefully put back in its place. He takes the tesseract last, changing out of his suit and borrowing a uniform from the barracks. He makes his way to the office and sits in the chair, waiting. Would she accept him? Understand he couldn’t offer her an explanation? The doorknob rattles and Steve holds his breath.

***

“What do you mean he missed the checkpoint?”

“I don’t know, I-“

Sam lets out a frustrated grunt.

“What do you mean, you don’t know? This is your thing, what are you-“

Bucky looks out at the lake. Steve had stayed in the past for a reason. Bucky guessed Peggy, but he couldn’t be sure, wouldn’t ever be sure, and wouldn’t ever be able to ask. Sam argued with Dr. Banner, but Bucky knew it wasn’t worth it. Dr. Banner couldn’t change it now, even if he tried. He stuffed his hands into his pocket, starting a little when he felt something there. He pulled his hand out, a flash drive gleaming up at him in the late afternoon sunlight.

“Sam.”

He holds up the flash drive with a raised eyebrow. Sam takes it from him, turning it over in his palm.

“He left this behind?”

“In my pocket. Must be important.”

***

Your body hurts. Something stops you from moving your arms as you try to reach for your face. You open your eyes to find yourself in a kneeling position. It’s not a room you recognize. Concrete walls, a low ceiling, and a concrete floor lit by a single swinging lightbulb.

“I had hoped I’d never have to bring you down here.”

There’s something over your mouth, metallic against your tongue. When you try to wiggle your arms, metal clinks against the wall. You’d seen these cuffs in files before, meant to hold much stronger than you, but you push against them anyway.

“I think I like you better like this. Silent, desperate, it’s really a good look.”

Steve sneers down at you.

“This room isn’t on any blueprints, so by the time they find you, who knows how long you’ll have been down here.”

He reaches out, caressing your cheek as if he were your lover.

“Had you listened, maybe you could’ve gone back without all this mess, but you chose defiance. Chose to hurt me, and you know, you really did succeed. See, I’ve decided to take a vacation from you. This time thing, it’s pretty handy, and I’ve got someone waiting for me in the past.”

He pulls a watch-looking item from a duffle bag on the floor, and a white suit, which he changes into without humility. He pauses a moment when he’s naked, eyeing you, but shakes his head and gets back to changing. He pats your head when he’s done, petting your hair a bit.

“I could take you with me, pretty girl, keep you for myself.”

He’s taunting you, goading you into a reaction, and you give him one in the form of rattling the chain attaching your binds to the concrete. They jangle as you attempt to yell around your gag. He presses a lingering kiss to your forehead. You jerk away from him, your chains clattering, and you pull at them again.

“Tell Buck to have fun raising my kid, will you?”

***

The door is open when Bucky comes up the deck steps. Sam’s behind him, watching for movement in the trees.

“She should be here. This is-these are the right coordinates.”

Sam’s tone tells Bucky he’s nervous.

“Steve’s gone. She should be the only one here.”

Still, there’s a cautious air between them as they enter the house. Light from outside floods into the house, throwing strange shadows up onto the walls.

“Doll?”

There’s no answer, not even the creak of a floorboard.

“You take up, I’ll take down?”

Sam’s already moving off towards a room as Bucky looks up the stairs. He’s got his gun put away, but it doesn’t stop him from keeping a hand on it. He calls for you, albeit softly. The bedroom to his right must have been Steve’s. The bed is still rumpled, a comforter folded neatly on the end of it. On his left, he sees another couple of doors standing ajar. One’s clearly your bedroom, all the furniture from the house in Wakanda is there. Your bed is made, the quilt smoothed out and pillows fluffed. There are clothes scattered about as if you’d been picking an outfit especially.

“Doll?”

No answer. He pokes his head into the bathroom, but still nothing. He stops short as he enters the last room. A nursery, decorated in yellows, with a large window on the wall opposite the door.

Anger bubbles in Bucky’s chest. The way Steve had manipulated you, tricked you into believing those vials were anything more than hormones, and then how he’d hurt you. How he’d put his hands on you and had the cruel audacity to put the camera feeds onto that drive. And to give it to Bucky? To give him every medical file, every scrap of record from the last five years, and show him every tragedy he hadn’t been there to stop? He’d kill Steve, he swore it on his mother’s grave.

Bucky opens one of the drawers on the dresser to find it stock full of little clothes. He runs his fingers over an onesie, carefully folded with a pocket made to look like a duck on the front. He clenches his left fist, the metal whining as it flexes. He heads back down the stairs to find Sam scanning the walls.

“There’s a library and a makeshift medbay, but nothing else. There’s no sign of her.”

“She has to be here, I don’t-wait, do you hear that?”

“What?”

Silence and then, softly, a jangling. Metal on metal on…concrete?

“I don’t hear anything.”

“I can hear better than you.”

“What do you mean you can-“

“Shut up.”

“Bu-“

“I said shut. Up.”

Sam falls silent.

“Doll?!”

The clanking gets louder, just slightly, more frenzied. Sam’s scanner goes again, homing in under the stairs.

“There's some sort of hidden door in the wood.”

Bucky kicks without aiming. The wood buckles a bit and he kicks again. Suddenly louder, the metallic sounds seem to rise from the wood itself.

“There’s a panel. Give me a minute.”

Bucky fidgets as Sam hacks, the concrete of the floor sliding away to reveal steps. A light clicks on below them.

“Let me go first, I-I don’t know what he’s done to her.”

You blink as the light flicks back on. You don’t know how long it’s been since Steve left you in the dark. The figure coming down the steps is too big to be Steve, too…too dark-haired. Your eyes widen, not believing what you see.

Bucky sees your acknowledgment, your eyes just visible above the metal mask around your head. He’s reminded of the mask he’d been forced to wear. There are vibranium cuffs on your wrists and around your elbows, pulling your arms back painfully. Both the mask and the cuffs are chained to the wall behind you. He kneels, holding your face in his hands. He breathes your name as if he can’t believe you’re really there in front of him.

“Is it clear?”

Sam’s voice from behind him barely registers. He comes down the steps despite the lack of answer, boots stopping suddenly when he sees you.

“Doll, don’t move, we’re going to get you out of these.”

***

“Mama!”

Lily bounds towards you with Bucky in tow. He stumbles a bit trying to keep up with her as she pulls at his hand, reaching out to you with a fistful of flowers.

“Daddy saw these and said they were pretty like you!”

She thrusts the small bouquet under your nose, and you smile at the flush on Bucky’s face. She heads up the steps to the brownstone, Bucky stopping to wrap an arm around your waist.

“How was the shrink session?”

“You know I hate it when you call it that.”

“Maybe, but you smile when I say it.”

You giggle as he pokes at your side.

“It was okay. We’re talking about trust.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes.”

“So, if I trust fall onto you, you’ll catch me?”

He feigns a faint against your shoulder, and you shove him a bit.

“Cut that out. C’mon inside, I fixed macaroni for the munchkin and sandwiches for us.”

“Sandwiches?”

“I found a replica for Chik-fil-A’s fried chicken online.”

He grins and heads in. You pause before following, looking up the street. It’d been a little under a year since they’d moved to the brownstone, a few blocks over from Rebekah’s family. It had taken him weeks to pluck up the courage to reach out to them, weeks more to actually go to their doorstep and see Rebekah for himself. On Sunday nights, they went over for a family meal. Bucky kept to himself mostly, sitting beside Rebekah near the head of the table and then beside her in the front room. Anything she needed; he’d immediately go after.

“Jamie, I’m not dead, I can get my own-“

He never listened. It’d be sheepish, the way he’d hand her things as if she’d suddenly reject him and cast him out of the house. Lily played with her cousins, complaining she didn’t have a “fun hat” to wear. Bucky didn’t have it in his heart to explain the concept of a yarmulke to her.

A shriek of laughter from inside tore you from your thoughts. The door was open slightly and you watch Bucky scoop Lily up onto his shoulders. You lean against the frame, sighing softly. Bucky notices, shuffling Lily off into the kitchen at the end of the hall.

“Get in your chair, munchkin, and I’ll fix you a plate.”

He comes to stand in front of you, hands ghosting your waist. He rests one of them on your stomach.

“Any kicks?”

“Not today. I think she’s going to keep me up tonight.”

“A night owl.”

“Like her father.”

“Great minds,” he murmurs, kissing your temple and using a hand on your lower back to guide you inside.

In an alley across the street, hat pulled low over his sunglasses, Steve smirks at the sight of you. Buck’s hand on your stomach tells him everything he needs to know.


End file.
